


Take Your Finger Off The Trigger

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Forever Evil (Comics), Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bondage, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Earth-3, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Marks, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mirror Universe, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Punishment, Restraints, Sadism, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 90,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4031707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason Todd was Talon, the enforcer and right hand of Owlman, right up until he was killed. But then, when he comes back to life and his killer is still running free, with no sign of mourning by the two people who always claimed he was theirs, his agenda changes. He becomes Red Hood, a mercenary bent on taking down any and all operations run by the Owls. Finally, one of his jobs lands him back in Gotham, and he comes face to face with his two former allies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So, this is a story that was (big shocker here) originally meant to be a small oneshot. _This_ behemoth later, I had the first chapter. I've finished three chapters; I'm working on the fourth and final one now. Yes, all of them are this big. Like I said, behemoth. XD This does take place in the Earth-3 universe (role-swapped characters) but it's not part of my connected one; this is a stand-alone piece.

"Do you know why I'm upset with you, Jason?" Bruce asks, his teeth sharp and bright in the faint light as he speaks, helmet missing and blue eyes bared to the world. To  _me_.

I swallow blood, breathing shallowly against the bruised ribs and the burning twist of my left shoulder as I shudder and give a harsh bark of laughter.  _God_ I don't feel it, but appearances are everything in here. "Thought it might have something to do with leaving, dying, not  _staying_ dead, not coming  _back_ , fighting y—"

Bruce smiles, and my words slam back into my throat so hard I almost  _choke_. I twist my hands and wrists against the cuffs on them — pulled so tight that the edges bite and tear at my skin; designed that way, I  _know_  — and Dick jerks  _hard_ on my hair as punishment, his fingers digging into my burning shoulder hard enough to make me shudder and groan through my teeth.

"Easy, little wing," Dick says with a  _smile_  in his voice, even if I can't see it. His fingers leave my shoulder and trace up over my arched throat, pulling with the hand in my hair in just the right way to make me arch up against the touch that lingers  _dangerously_ against the jut of my Adam's apple, and his fingers flutter up and then down with it as I swallow. "Don't make yourself bleed, that's  _our_ right."

" _Fuck_ you," I spit up at him, and he laughs. Bright and unaffected, too damn  _cheerful_  for the mass murdering psychopath he is. He shoves my head back down, hand lingering in my hair but not pulling or grasping anymore, just sitting. His other hand drifts back from my throat and slips beneath the collar of my jacket to grip the junction of my neck and shoulder.

Bruce's smile is thin, matching fucking  _perfectly_ with that look that's always in the back of his eyes, that never  _goes away_. Studying, tearing me apart from the inside out because he knows me better than I know myself and I've always  _hated_ that. Feared it, but  _hated_ it. He's amused, but the layer of blatant expression on his face — the  _fake_ layer — is disappointment. Even  _knowing_ he's forcing it to be there it makes me twitch and fight not to drop my head all the way to the floor and ask for his forgiveness.

It's never that  _easy_.

"That's not right," Bruce corrects, reaching forward from where he's sitting in his chair in front of me and I'm kneeling half between his legs, held down by Dick's hand on my shoulder and his weight at my back. I can't pull away from him, can't even  _try_  because I'm trained too damn well to respond to his voice and his touch and it doesn't  _matter_ how long I've been gone; that  _never_  goes away.

His fingers touch my cheek and my eyes shutter closed at the slight drag of clawed fingertips against my skin, the cool metal of the gauntlet covering his hand as it soothes over my face. It feels  _natural_ , feels like  _home_ , and I bite my tongue to hold back the sound that wants to leave me. I don't know if it would be a whimper or a snarl or some ungodly mix of the two, and I don't want to find out. His thumb catches against my lower lip, pulling it slightly away from my teeth, and I hold perfectly,  _utterly_ still even though I want to shout and bite and fucking  _claw_ his eyes from his  _skull_.

Because I couldn't. I could  _never_  hurt Bruce, not even if Dick wasn't pressing against my back and my bound hands like a second skin. I could open my mouth, I could  _snarl_ and make a show of it, but bite?  _Never_. I'm all bark and Bruce  _knows_ it. Uses it to  _damn_ me to hell over and over again because he knows I'll always,  _always_ , fold.

The claw of his gauntleted thumb bumps against my teeth, hooking between them with practiced ease, and I shiver as Dick's hand moves, stroking through my hair like I'm something precious, like he didn't just beat me to the ground and drag me back here by the scruff of my neck. Dick always manages to do that,  _somehow_. To make you feel like everything he does is completely impersonal and unconnected, but at the same time so damn  _intimate_ that it's like he's your closest lover or your  _shadow_.

" _Jason_ ," Bruce commands, not needing to say the words for me to know what's expected of me. His voice slides across my shoulders like the slither of a cape, familiar and promising safety in the way it hides me, but it's  _not_ who I am, not anymore. It's  _not_  and I—  _God_ , I…

I let my jaw relax, and Dick croons a sound of approval above me and gives the slightest tug at my hair. Rewarding this time, not punishing, because Dick likes the idea of a carrot almost as much as a stick, but his idea of which is which isn't always right. Bruce's thumb — covered in metal and leather, and it's  _sick_ that the taste is a familiar one on my tongue — slips deeper into my mouth, pushing through my teeth, and I shiver again and try not to react as the tip of the claw drags over my tongue. Sharp enough to sting, to raise the faintest taste of blood, but not really enough to hurt.

Bruce makes a small sound of approval that shouldn't make me relax into his hand, but it  _does._  Because I am  _sick_ and  _wrong_ , and no matter how deep in cover I try and hide Bruce is burrowed so deeply beneath my skin that I'll never get him  _out_. His thumb slips back out, scratching a bit more purposefully, and allows me to close my mouth again as his hand pulls back away.

"I'm not angry that you left, Jason," Bruce says softly, and I pry my eyes open and look up at him, at the faint disappointment still on his face. All the parts of me still loyal to Bruce —  _every_ part of me — holds its breath and focuses on him, waiting and  _watching_ to see what I've done wrong and how I can  _fix_ it. "You needed to learn to fly on your own, I understood. Dick did the same thing, and I always knew you would come back to me."

Now, I  _know_ he's right. I was so sure then, when I ran from Bruce's shadow and the burden of always being Talon, that I was never going back. But all the nights I've shuddered awake with his name on my lips, or the phantom feeling of Dick's hands against my back, have taught me otherwise. I was always going to come back here, I wouldn't have been able to stand staying away.

"Your death was… unfortunate, and your resurrection at that  _hero's_ hands more so," my heart dips, some part of me cringing away at the implication that the fact I'm  _alive_ is 'unfortunate,' "but I cannot regret the outcome of it all. However long your absence you are  _home_ again, Jason, and whatever you did while away from my care it makes no difference. You're  _home_."

"Not by choice," I manage, and Bruce gives a low chuckle that Dick echoes with a bright laugh. I almost get a snarl to my lips,  _almost_ , before the hand in my hair pulls steadily back, and Dick leans down next to my ear.

"Leave playing hard to get to the  _masters_ , little wing," he hisses, his teeth nipping at the side of my neck in a way that makes my pulse jump in something that isn't really fear. I don't doubt that Dick would tear my throat out with his teeth if he wanted to, but it wouldn't be this easy, things are  _never_ that easy in this place. I don't have to fear death, not yet.

If Bruce wanted me dead — it wouldn't  _matter_ if Dick did, because Dick is more Bruce's than even I am — it would be long, and painful, and I would  _beg_ for him to end things long before he  _let_ Dick rip my throat out. I'm not screaming, so whatever it is Bruce is going to pry out of me before he even  _thinks_ of letting me go, it isn't my life.

Dick's hand slides around the front of my throat, settling easily across my skin and pressing in just hard enough to make my breath catch on every inhalation, to make me  _feel_ his presence. Bruce watches with a predatory look, one I'm more used to reading through the large, white eyes of his Owlman helmet. Seeing the slightly narrowed eyes to match the slight smirk is a little unnerving. Bruce is always most dangerous in this half-and-half state. Where he's not Owlman, but he's not pretending to be Mr. Wayne either. Just Bruce, free of anything to hold him down and free to do anything he  _wants._

"You came to Gotham, Jason," Bruce reminds me. "If you wanted to stay away from us you would  _never_ have stepped foot in my city again. You wanted to be back here."

"No—" I protest, and Dick's hand closes tight around my throat, cutting me off so Bruce can continue.

"Wanted to be back under our hands," Bruce says, and I give as much of a shake of my head as I can; I get another  _yank_ to my hair for my trouble, "and  _wanted_ to be one of the fold again." He reaches forward, tracing his fingers along my cheek again. "It's  _alright_ , Jason. You don't need to pretend here. You're an Owl, you're one of us, and you will  _always_ be safe under this roof.  _Give in_ , and the two of us will remind you what it's like to be accepted, to be  _loved_."

It's a  _nasty_ keyword trick, and I twitch and choke under Dick's grip, but that doesn't make it  _work_ any less. I  _know_ what Bruce wants from me, and I know I'll  _give_ it, but just a minute more, just a few seconds, god just a  _second_ more before I have to. My wrists twist against the handcuffs, shoulders jerking back against Dick in a way that's more instinctive struggle than any real attempt at fighting. It's dumb to be here at all, but it would be even worse to try fighting Dick at a disadvantage like this. I know better than that.

Dick's fingers tighten, clamping down in  _just_ the right way to keep me at the edge of gasping, getting  _barely_ enough air to pull me  _slowly_  towards suffocation. It's so much worse than the sudden, sharp panic of strangulation. Dick is a  _master_ at giving you  _just_ enough air that it's  _not enough_. Prolonged death, and it barely even leaves much of a bruise when he's finished with you.

He could keep me right on the edge of blacking out for  _hours_ , if he really wanted to, and maybe it makes me a coward but I  _know_ this feeling and it scares me to death. I'd rather put my life in their hands willingly than have the option  _taken_ from me like this.

I push my head back against the warmth of Dick's chest — a furnace even through the layers of reinforced fabric and armor pads — and force myself into perfect stillness. I stop struggling, stop  _breathing_ , lean back, bare my throat, and  _surrender_ to the hold of my older brother-in-arms. There's a purr of approval next to my ear and Dick's grip loosens enough to let me breathe, but I  _don't_ , as I was taught. The hardest thing I  _ever_ learned.

How to surrender. How to relax in a grip that's killing you and give everything you are to someone else, to hand another person control over  _anything they want_. To give  _Bruce_ control over what I did, to not even  _breathe_ without his command. It was  _so_ hard, but I learned. They made  _sure_ I learned.

"Inhale _,_ " Bruce demands, and I obey because I don't have another option. Dragging in air past the pressure of Dick's hand until my lungs are full of it and they start to burn, and when my instincts tell me I should let it go I hold it in. Twitching under the strain but  _never_ breathing out because Bruce knows my limits, always has, and right as it's  _too much_ and I  _can't_ keep the air in any longer he speaks.

"Exhale."

The rush of it back out makes me feel ragged,  _empty_. My eyes slide shut again, and Dick's hand strokes over my throat, the padded fingertips of his gloves — the  _only_  one of the three of us who didn't choose to have claws because Dick likes to  _grab_  and  _twist_ and  _stroke_  — slipping easily across my skin. His other hand loosens in my hair and then slips back and down to tangle in the shorter hairs at the base of my skull.

"Inhale."

It's totally impossible to relax with the strain of keeping air out or keeping air in, of  _not_ doing what my body insists is what I  _have_  to, but I ease into it anyway. Dick's fingertips gently stroking at the base of my skull, his other hand petting along the front of my throat, dipping down and beneath the front of my shirt a few inches, become my world. My eyes stay closed, my head tilted back against my brother's chest, and I let myself fade away to nothing but the easy commands of Bruce.

In, and out, and in again. It's frighteningly easy, and familiar. Everything I am reduced to being still, waiting for the word of my…  _not_  my father, to command me, to tell me if I get to breathe for a moment longer.

" _Good_ , Jason," Bruce says quietly,  _praising_ , and I shove the angry,  _violent, scared_  bits of me away to let that praise sink into my bones and warm my chest. "You may breathe as you wish."

I remember gasping when I was new, when he would release me from that kind of a surrender, but now I only draw in a shallow, controlled breath, letting my eyes stay closed. It hurts to take in anything deeper, and I'm not the masochistic fuck most people seem to think I am, and not a big fan of causing myself pain. I didn't come back to Gotham for Bruce, I  _didn't_ , and I definitely didn't come back to get my ass kicked by Dick, so why the hell does it  _feel_  like I did? Why do I feel like I'm right where I belong for the first time in months and  _years_ , and right back where I should be?

I do  _not_  belong kneeling in front of my  _not_ -father with my  _not_ -brother at my back, but  _damn_  if it doesn't feel like I do. The tight, itchy pain of the cuffs around my wrists is new, but the rest of this is sickeningly familiar. It feels natural to be on my knees for Bruce and  _waiting_  for his word or his command, Dick pressing against my back and waiting equally as fervently, like Bruce is a damn  _god_  and we're both waiting for him to hand down the ten commandments.

 _Thou shalt have no other gods before me_.

I let my head hang, bowing under the gentle touch of Dick's hand and the weight of Bruce's stare, easing into the position they've put me in like—  _god_ , like I never even left. This is  _so_  dangerous. I  _didn't_  come back to Gotham for them — I've been denying the loyal parts of me for years and I didn't suddenly  _cave_  to them just like that — but I could forget that. I could shatter all over again like Bruce wants me to, slip back into being Talon as easily as I can shrug into my jacket, like I never took the costume off to start with. It would be so easy, and I could have a home again and not just a place I sleep; I could let Bruce and Dick have me, body and soul, and never look over my shoulder for a knife at my back again. With them watching, I wouldn't have to.

But I spent a long time dragging myself back from the edge of the pit-madness, making myself something,  _anything_ , that didn't kill on reflex. Trying to forget what Bruce made me, and how much I  _enjoyed_  it. How much I  _enjoyed_  being in control for once in my life, being the one standing over someone  _else's_  broken form and not the one on the ground. Trying to forget the way that Bruce would smile when I did something particularly vicious, or made someone scream. The way Dick would  _laugh_ , his head arcing back like he was showing off with every noise, before he'd come up to my back, slip his hands around my waist and around my gloves, every line of his body pressed up against my own, just to feel the blood dampen the fabric of  _his_ gloves. Trying to forget that however much I kidded myself that I wasn't a psychopath like Dick or a sociopath like Bruce — manipulative bastard — at my heart I  _liked_  the taste of blood on my tongue and the feel of a man's last, desperate struggle under my hands before he died. I  _always_  liked it.

"It's good to have you back, Jason," Bruce says, and I don't hear him move but then there's a gauntleted hand on my throat and I flick my eyes open and up to look at him, to meet his gaze, and damnit I  _know_  I'm showing too much. Bruce can read me like a book anyway,  _all_  the time, but I usually like to not make his job any easier.

I  _hate_ him, and I  _fear_ him, and I would lay down at his feet and be happy there for a long time. I want to curse and  _scream_ at him, snarl and snap and  _run_ until I can get away from the loyalty burning sharp in my chest. I'd forgotten what this felt like, and it's all so much  _worse_ now that I know what it's like outside of Gotham. It's not  _better_ , but it's not  _this_.

"I'm  _sorry_ ," is what comes out of my mouth, a plea more than an apology.  _Forgive me_ ,  _please_. I don't even know what it's for, not  _really_. For what I've done, what I  _haven't_ done, what I'm  _going_ to do?

Bruce's fingers press into the faintly tender spots left by Dick's grip, just for a moment, and he glances up at my brother, the man I replaced. "Do you know why I'm upset with you, Jason?" he repeats, focusing down at me again.

"No," I admit, swallowing against the press of his hand and trying  _really_  hard not to lean forward into it, just to feel him against me. Just to feel  _anyone_  against me.

Bruce had to be  _angry_ , to send Dick after me like he did. He sent Dick to take me apart when I'd barely even crossed city limits, and he  _knows_ that if he'd showed up in front of me and ordered me home, I would have  _done_ it. I hate myself for  _thinking_  it, but I know I would have done it. I gave Dick one hell of a chase, there are going to be a lot of headlines tomorrow about our fight — and my really public, brutal defeat at Dick's hands — but I didn't need the beating to know that Bruce was going to have me back home. All I would have needed to hear was his voice, all I would have needed to see was the flash of his cape or the crook of his fingers, and I would have followed him back here even  _knowing_  it was a terrible idea. It's screwed up, and it makes me sick to the stomach with anger and  _fear_ , but I can  _never_ deny that Bruce is  _everything_ to me.

He sent Dick after me to  _hurt_  me, which means Bruce is angry enough about something I've done that he was willing to ignore his usual abhorrence for media involvement. That's one  _hell_  of a concession for Bruce the control freak, who only ever does something when he's at least eighty-five percent sure it's going to go the way he wants.

But what the  _hell_  did I do? He said it wasn't leaving, or dying, or coming back, or  _not_  coming back to Gotham, or even fighting him over the last few years. I fought him quietly, it's not like I ever  _dared_ actually coming after him directly, but I've run a lot of interference outside of Gotham. I helped  _heroes_ , for god's sake, and used all that insider knowledge to hit him where it would hurt. If he's not angry about  _that_ , what the hell could he be angry about?

There's no way in  _hell_  he knows about why I'm  _really_  back in Gotham — I'd be  _so_  beyond dead if he did — so what? What else have I done that could piss him off enough that he'd want me punished before he'd even seen me again?

Bruce's claws dig into my skin a little bit and I do the  _dumbest_ , most anti-survivalist thing on fucking  _automatic_. I push  _into_  the touch, into the sting, arching my throat to bare it. The second I realize what I'm doing I shudder, but hold back the urge to pull sharply away. I can cling to the naive,  _stupid_ little hope that I'm really  _not_  letting myself fall for this  _shit_ again, but my best chance of getting out of this in one piece is if they believe I'm sinking back into the role they want me to play. Maybe I can't fool Bruce, but Bruce hasn't seen me in a long time and he doesn't  _know_ me like he did. I think I can get away with it.

I'd  _never_ have stepped foot in Gotham's limits ever again if I didn't think I had a chance of making it back out. I'm  _really_ not suicidal and I've done a lot of  _stupid_ shit but I'm not dumb enough to underestimate the kind of things Bruce could do to me. I've  _seen_ him torture people, helped him do it, even if he usually lets Dick do those kinds of things. Bruce likes  _power_ , it's Dick that loves the blood and the  _pain_.

I hold myself still under his claws, not breaking eye contact and shutting down the instinct to pull away and the  _desire_ to press closer. Bruce doesn't appreciate people trying to get away from him, or anyone trying to deny him what he wants. He wants  _me_ , and I don't think I know how to give him what that without permanently losing another piece of myself. He has  _enough_  bits of me that he's pried away or I've bared to him already,  _fuck_ if I'm giving him any more if I can help it.

"Then what are you apologizing for?" Bruce asks, the claws digging in just a  _little_  harder, enough that I feel them break skin in a place or two. Not enough to bleed that much, but enough to sting.

I  _know_  what he's doing, but it almost works anyway. I have to bite down on my tongue and swallow hard not to spit out  _everything_  I've done out of his sight that I  _knew_  he'd disapprove of. Somewhere in my messed up head I know I have a mental list that I've been making, as I did things and then thought of what Bruce would say if he saw me doing it, and filed it away in a list of things to feel guilty about. Small things, mostly, with a few larger ones that stick out sharply in my head — mostly not  _killing_  people that I could or maybe even  _should_  have — but nothing specific that I can think of that would make him angry enough to do  _this_.

"Everything," I settle on saying, and I  _hate_  the way my voice comes out  _pleading_. I have no  _idea_  what I did, and no idea exactly what my first apology was even about. I don't  _know_  and I can't  _tell_  him what I don't know.

Bruce's eyes narrow just a little, claws easing back just a bit. "Is that right?"

These guessing games always make me nervous as all  _hell_. When you don't know why someone's mad at you that's bad, but when you don't know why  _Bruce_  is mad at you that's a whole other level of dangerous. If I know what it is I can fix it, or defuse, or explain, or just accept whatever punishment he has planned, but until I  _know_  I can't do  _any_  of that. I'm  _bad_  at guessing games, it's pretty much always true that if I didn't know what someone was talking about at the start of a conversation, I'm not going to guess unless they hand out really obvious hints. Social things aren't really my talent.

"I'd really appreciate you just telling me," I manage warily, way more cautiously than I'd speak to even  _Ra's al Ghul_. Dick gives another small tug at the strands of hair curled between his fingers, at the base of my skull. Not enough to  _really_ hurt, it's a warning instead of a punishment.

Bruce's hand abruptly leaves my throat, and with  _anyone_ else I'd say that's a good thing but Bruce getting distant usually  _isn't_ good. That's when he gets nastiest, is when he's disconnected from whatever victim he's picked for the day. In a  _sick_ way, Bruce having my throat in his hand is a weird kind of guarantee that he's probably not going to hurt me that badly. It's strange but it's  _true_.

There's a flash of silent communication over my head that I can only read part of without being able to see Dick's face, and Bruce's bits are always harder so all I get is that it's a  _command_.

Dick's hands release their grips and slide down my front as he bends down over me, still pressed  _firmly_ against my back and the length of my bound arms, and he makes a very  _displeased_ sound in my ear as his lips graze against it and his breath washes over my skin. His hands shove my jacket away from my sides, resting fingers on my ribs as his teeth graze across the top of my ear, and I shudder at the feeling and the way Dick's fingers are prodding into my ribs and mapping out my tiny flinches. I don't think any of my ribs are broken, but there's definitely some nasty bruising going on and Dick is remembering  _exactly_ where he hit me to make it happen.

"You've been playing with other people, Jason," Dick hisses into my ear, with a snap of his teeth  _right_  next to it to punctuate his accusation. I can't help flinching.

"Talia," Bruce says shortly,  _sharply_ , and I get the  _weirdest_  mix of reactions.

On one hand I want to  _laugh_ , because  _shit_. Everything I've done in  _direct_ opposition to Bruce over the last few years, or just how I've not been acting anything like the loyal minion he trained me to be, and he's upset with me because I had sex with some other person? Dick and Bruce are  _seriously_  this irritated because I chose to sleep with someone else  _once_  during the years I've been gone? That's  _it?_  There are so many worse things I could have done, that I  _have_  done, that they could be pissed about, but it's  _this?_  That's just, that's so  _petty_  in the scheme of things. One time, and I was mostly pit-mad at the time and not really in my right mind. It's not like I kept sleeping with her after that, or even like it was really good.

Talia was alright, but I guess I'm just… trained to different things. It wasn't what I wanted, even out of my mind and crazy as I was.

On the other hand,  _yes_. I can  _absolutely_  imagine Bruce being displeased not because I fought him, or because I chose not to come back to him, but over the fact that I  _ever_  chose to let someone else that close to me. I am  _his_ , I know it, and Dick is  _almost_  as much of a possessive bastard as Bruce is. Yeah, I can imagine the two of them seeing  _this_  as the betrayal, not anything else I've done over the years. That was business, this is… personal? To them.

I wasn't expecting to get out of here without a bunch of bruises, but this could be bad.

"Talia?" I repeat, and then suck in a sharp breath as Dick's fingers go rigid and jab inwards, making me jerk a bit at the sharp pain of my bruised ribs. He makes another low,  _angry_  sound in my ear, as my head tilts back a little bit and I squeeze my eyes shut for a second.

Bruce stands. Suddenly, in a whirl of fabric and the click of metal, and my head snaps up to follow him. "Did you forget who you  _are_ , Jason?" he asks, with a thin sneer, and this time when his hand lowers to trace claws over my throat and the underside of my jaw it doesn't feel  _safe_  anymore. I swallow.

"For a bit, yeah," I answer honestly, tilting my head farther back to bare my throat at the insistent pressure on the underside of my jaw. "Lazarus pit, temporary insanity.  _That's_  when that happened." When confronted with a pissed off Bruce, the best policy is always honesty. With Dick it's getting the hell out of the way. I can't do  _both_ , but at least Dick won't hurt me too badly without Bruce's permission.

Dick snarls — it sounds  _wrong_  on him, and it really clicks into place how  _angry_  they are about this — and his fingers push in harder, forcing a strangled groan from me. "You're  _ours_ , little wing," Dick says, and I'm pretty sure the nip to the side of my throat breaks the skin because there's a sharp flash of pain where his teeth come together that feels too intense to just be bruising force. I wince.

Bruce jerks my attention back to him by raking his claws under my chin with enough force to at  _least_  raise some serious red lines on my skin, if it's not scratching me. "What Dick meant to say is that you are an  _Owl_ , and that makes you part of  _us_  above everything and everyone else. Did you  _forget_  that?" His claws tug a little harder at my skin, and I smother a second wince and try and breathe steadily through the feeling of Dick's fingers prodding and driving into my injured ribs with unerring accuracy. "You are  _my_ Talon, Jason,  _always_."

"I'm sorry," I repeat, actually meaning it for something specific this time. Bruce gives a tiny sneer, and the reason he might be pissed clicks inside my head with a thunk that feels like it echoes because  _damn_ , I should have noticed that before.

Talia and Bruce had a thing for a while didn't they? Not an  _actual_  thing — Ra's al Ghul would  _murder_ both of them before that happened, even if he does claim to be a hero — but I remember some definite flirting and messing around. Like Bruce and Catwoman. I wasn't  _really_  in my right mind, and the details of that time are a little fuzzy, but I don't think it's really too far to jump to think Talia might have just been using me as a substitute. Not that I  _care_ , really, fuck knows I was using her too, but Bruce might not look too kindly on one of his possessions touching another without his permission.

Probably the only reason Dick isn't carving things into my skin, honestly. It should probably scare me more than it does that I'm pretty sure Dick would carve his name into my flesh without a second thought and with a  _lot_ of pleasure, if Bruce would let him.

Bruce pulls his hand back — and I catch the wet glint of blood off the end of his claws, which means I'm going to have some interesting scratches later — and nods to Dick, who immediately withdraws his hands and grabs me by the upper arms, dragging me to my feet. I stifle a gasp but still make a pained noise at the pull and awkward twist of my injured left shoulder as my weight is forced through it. Oh, that's not fun. A little more fun than Dick playing 'find the soft spot' with my ribs, but not by much.

"Apologies have no  _substance_ , Jason," Bruce reminds me, as Dick's hands tighten painfully around my arms and he purposefully pushes my shoulder up at an angle that makes me grit my teeth, "you know that."

"And you know I  _don't_  apologize to just anybody," I manage, in a voice that's half-snarl because  _damn_ does my shoulder burn and  _ache_ at the angle Dick's holding it. "I honestly can't remember why the hell I even agreed to it, Bruce, alright? I don't even know why she offered."

Shit, except now I  _do_  remember why I  _agreed_ , though. That happens with the pit-mad memories. They're fuzzy and gone until I actually think about them, and then they snap back into focus and everything is sharp and  _vivid_ , like it's happening  _right now_.

When Talia propositioned I said yes because the pit was still  _really_  influencing me, and everything felt so much more alive and  _bright_  than they had before. I wanted to know if sex was the same and, underneath that damn  _shallow_  reason, I wanted to know if things would be different with a woman. I wanted to know if the attraction could stay that, if I could pull through sex with a woman and actually make it or if I was so well trained that it just wouldn't satisfy. And I… I was in so much pain, at that point, I just wanted anything to numb all the feelings out or make them go away just for a little while. I've  _always_  dodged moments like that by burying myself in someone else's skin, and Talia's offer felt like the perfect solution.

I  _got_  my answers.

"Tell me," Bruce demands, showing off that irritating as all hell ability to know  _exactly_  when something's occurred to me just by watching me. Dick lets my shoulder drop back down to a normal height, and I resist the urge to roll it because I  _know_  that will hurt like a bitch. I don't think it's dislocated, everything still feels pretty much in place, but I'm sure Dick wrenched it pretty badly while he was busy beating me into the ground.

It's not like there's a point in lying, I guess, or even refusing to answer. If Bruce wants the answer he'll get it out of me, one way or another.

"I was pit-mad," I say shortly, resisting the urge to sink to my knees or back down from Bruce's faint sneer in any way. "It  _hurt_ , I didn't have  _anyone_ , she offered, and I said yes to make it all go away for a couple hours." Dick's fingers tighten for a moment, and he makes another displeased sound, but they loosen again after the moment is done. "That's all it was and it never happened again."

Bruce's sneer fades, but his head tilts up and he looks down his nose at me. It almost stings more than the scratches in my skin or the minor scrapes I've got all over from the surfaces of streets or walls. "Did it work?" he asks, disappointment, disgust, and something like  _dismissal_  all in his voice at once.

It takes me longer then it should to connect the two things together, but then I swallow again. "No," I answer. and Bruce gives a small, slow, smile. Satisfied. In response to the look Dick's grip loosens further, and a mouth presses against the side of my throat, close to where he bit me earlier. Not apologizing — the only time ' _sorry_ ' comes near Dick's mouth is when he's being sarcastic or  _mocking_  — but soothing.

" _Good_ ," my not-brother murmurs against my skin, and I can't help shivering at how  _familiar_  the touch feels, but so new at the same time. "No one else knows you like  _we_  do, Jason.  _No one_."

That's probably a good thing. I'm not the same kind of crazy that my two 'family' members are, but I'm sure as hell not free, or innocent, or anything. I chose to be Talon, and I liked it. Explaining the kind of shit I've done to  _anyone_  else would probably be a quick way to get a legion of heroes called down on me, and even I probably can't take more than about three or four at a time, depending on who they are. I always knew that Bruce and Dick were going to be the  _only_  people to ever really know me, even when I faked friends as part of my social front as 'Jason Wayne'. Useless cowards, most of those kids. That fact was only brought into sharper relief after I came back from the dead to a bunch of heroes that wanted me to  _join_  them, as  _if_ , and I spent months and months watching my tongue so none of them ever figured out that I was still an Owl underneath the role they'd wrapped me in.

"Dick," Bruce intercedes, looking over my shoulder at my not-brother, "get Jason cleaned up, and uncuff him. I imagine he'd like to keep those…" His gaze flicks up and down my frame, lingering on my jeans and then on my jacket. "Rags." I bite my tongue to not complain that this is real leather and everything, because he's  _Bruce Wayne_. He could have a hundred leather coats here in an hour if he wanted them. I bow my head, not really willing to say the 'thank you' that might slip out if I open my mouth. "You'll still need to be punished, Jason," Bruce says flatly.

For once, I'm glad that Dick speaks over me, trampling over what I was going to say before my mouth is even fully open. "I'm sure he'll take  _whatever_  we give him." Dick's voice is filled with promise, anticipation, and I really, honestly don't know what he's promising. Pain, pleasure? A lot of both? Knowing him, it's probably the mix. It's hard to get Dick to do much of anything without him hurting someone nearby to keep himself entertained. "Isn't that right,  _Red Hood?_ "

The use of my working name, the one I took when I decided I didn't want to be Talon anymore, or just 'Jason', is probably a bad sign. Bruce didn't seem to care that I was 'leaving the nest,' to make an awful pun out of it, but I don't know how Dick felt about me up and running from them. If I had to guess I'd say he was mostly pissed I didn't tell him I was leaving before I actually  _went_.

Bruce watches me as I fumble for words, as I try and find the way to say that  _no_ , I'm not going to just sink down at their feet and let them do whatever they want to me. I got away from that, I  _ran_ from that. I'm not their  _toy_ , and I'm damn well not their plaything anymore. That's what all of this was  _about_ , wasn't it? If I wanted to still be Talon, still be  _theirs_ , I would have come back to Gotham the second I was free of the pit-madness and dropped myself right back into the thick of things. I  _didn't_. I spent a lot of time proving to myself and anyone else who  _dared_  doubting me that I could survive on my own, be something apart from who they wanted me to be. I'm not going to do this anymore, not for them.

I open my mouth to tell them that, muscles tensing under Dick's hands and beneath his teeth, and " _Yes_ ," is what comes out of it.

Bruce smiles — razor-thin and  _knowing_  — as my heart drops, and I swallow away all the rest of the words that will never,  _ever_  leave my head. Dick makes a pleased noise, biting down hard enough to hurt but not enough to make me cringe or pull away. My hands clench, pressed back against one of Dick's hips, as the fight drains out of me. Clearly my head and my heart aren't on speaking terms anymore, because  _fuck_  the rest of this I  _know_  I can't do anything but take whatever they choose to do to me. There's a part of me that holds its breath in anticipation, and  _wants_  it.

Wants the feel of Dick's nails on my skin and the way he'll drag and pull and  _hurt_  until I can't remember which way is up or why I bothered resisting in the first place, before he ever lets me come back down. Wants the cool gaze of Bruce's eyes on me as Dick plays, heating until he  _moves_  in a way that always feels like some part of him has been stripped away and left raw and  _aching_. Dick will leave the sore muscles and the scratches, but it's  _Bruce_  who will leave bruises.

I can't  _breathe_  for how much I  _want_  that, and how  _afraid_  I am to get it.

"Good boy," Bruce says softly, approval obvious in his gaze and his tone. To get through this, to try and be something beyond a nervous wreck of anticipation, I let the tone sink into my chest and let it soothe me. It's like a pat on the head, or a murmured word of praise, but it's enough.

It's Bruce  _preying_  on all of my fucked up, attention and touch starved background, and I've read enough about it to  _know_  that, but that doesn't mean that it works any less. Knowing what he's doing doesn't mean I can stop him, or that I can stop all the  _hurting_ ,  _lonely_  parts of me from accepting the only signs of praise anyone has ever given.

Bruce turns away, dismissing me and spinning the chair to sit back down in front of his console, and Dick releases his grip on my arms to grab my jacket at the shoulder instead, pulling me from the room and towards the stairs leading up to the manor. I follow without argument, without a word, as he pulls me along with him.

"When was the last time you had a shower?" Dick asks, almost cheerfully, and I find myself answering without thinking about it, falling right back into the easy communication of someone I count as  _family._

"Before you bruised my ribs, wrenched my shoulder, and dragged me across at least three of Gotham's streets," I say, with a sarcastic edge. My shirt might have been white to start with, but now it's dirty, ripped in a few places to show the armored pads underneath, and maybe a little stained with blood. The jacket took most of the abuse — it's not  _just_  a fashion choice, I fight on a lot of rough streets and the leather helps me not get shredded — but Dick  _knows_  how to get around any kind of armor. He knows how to target weak points.

I had a helmet, at one point, but he shattered one side of it pretty much right off the bat, which I guess was better than what that same blow would have done to my  _head_. Not that Dick would have hit my face that hard if he wasn't aiming for the helmet; he wanted it off my head. I had a domino mask too — because Gotham is full of nasty fuckers who would love to know who I am, and my helmet doesn't always hold — but he ripped that off my face the second he had me in the car. I guess he didn't appreciate my attempt at being anything but myself.

"It wasn't that bad," Dick says, as we reach the top of the stairs and the metal door clicks aside as we approach.

He, on the other hand, is pretty much  _pristine_. I didn't go down without a fight, and he's definitely got his own collection of bruises, but apart from one long slice along his ribs on the right side from my knife he looks untouched. Dirt doesn't show up on the black costume, and the streaks of blue along it aren't near the areas where he might get slammed up against walls or down against the ground. The slice to his side stretches from about an inch to the side of where I know his navel is and up, diagonally, to a few inches under his armpit. My knife is  _good_ , it was a present from Lady Shiva, so the armor underneath his suit didn't stand much more of a chance against it than the fabric itself. The costume is peeled away from the edges of the slice a bit, showing the armoring where it's padded and his skin where it's not, but the black has soaked up any amount of bleeding he might have done. It's a long cut, but it isn't deep.

It shouldn't take more than a few days to heal up, and the bleeding might have been more than it should have because Dick is an acrobat above all else and does  _not_  stay still for long, ever, but he probably barely even feels it.

The door into the manor clicks shut behind us, sealing shut so perfectly you'd never know where it was if you didn't already  _know_ , and he drags me down the halls without even a pause. Towards Bruce's room, it only takes me a second to figure out. That sounds right, yeah. Bruce's room is usually where we… gathered, and he's got the nicest bathroom in the whole manor so it's where everyone tends to gravitate to when they need to clean up with more than a quick rinse in the showers down in the Roost. It's not like Bruce spends that much time up here, and when he is actually sleeping he never cared if we were in and out of his room.

The manor is pretty much just the way I remember it, except a few missing or added decorations. It's been a couple years, I'm sure there have to have been at least a couple of changes made around here. Alfred doesn't usually let the manor stay precisely the same for very long, and Bruce takes, hides, or uses things often enough that even when I called this place home, things were always changing.

Alfred is the only thing that I completely,  _totally_ , missed while I was gone. There's no confliction there, I  _know_  that whatever else I might have done or whoever else I chose to hurt, I would have avoided Alfred to my last breath. There's something about having someone always ready to comfort or ply you with food or a warm hand on the shoulder that's  _amazing_ , especially when you can be covered in dirt or someone else's blood and all he'll do is click his tongue and help you to somewhere else to clean up. Alfred has put or kept me together more times than Dick and Bruce  _combined_  have taken me apart, so I'd protect him till I bled out, if that's what it took.

Because when Bruce does sleep up here he tends to be fairly tired, the door to his rooms is only about a hundred feet to the left of the hidden entrance to the Roost. Dick eases in with familiarity, and I take a glance around to see that Bruce's room is  _just_  the way I remember it, with the exception of having black sheets and comforter on the top of the bed instead of the dark blue that I remember from the last time I saw it. Roughly twenty-four hours before I ended up dead in an abandoned warehouse, broken and bleeding at the hands of someone Bruce considers —  _still_  — to be nearly an  _ally_.

I don't know how Bruce settled things, behind closed doors, with Ultraman over what he and his little clone-son- _thing_  did to me, but as far as I know the son of a bitch just got away with it. There was never anything in the papers, and none of the heroes I was with told me anything about any confrontations between the two of them. Usually, Crime Syndicate business stays strictly private, so no one  _knows_  how much they fight behind the soundproof, locked walls of their headquarters. I hope Bruce  _hurt_  him; I'm scared to  _ask_.

Dick nearly shoves me towards the bathroom — the open door on the far right of the large room — and I manage to keep my balance through the mixed effect of lots of training under a bunch of ninjas, and a  _lot_  of practice at holding my ground under Dick's usually unbalancing touches. He releases my jacket once we're inside the tiled bathroom, crossing the room to flip on the shower in the far corner. It's  _easily_  big enough to fit six or seven people, with sprays coming down from all three walls of it and several racks of various care products. Some for harder scrubbing to get blood from underneath fingernails or out of skin, some for use over the more sensitive kinds of wounds, and the rest a collection that's enough to keep the famous Wayne family looking good enough for the cameras.

It's a weird double life to fight and kill, and then turn around and smile for the cameras and try to hide the bruises. I was always pretty sure that Bruce paid out a lot of bribes to get people to ignore the bruises that Dick and I went out into public with, what makeup and cover-up couldn't hide anyway, or what might show if we twisted the wrong way or our shirts gapped at just the right angle to show the injuries that should be hidden. I'm pretty damn sure that public opinion agrees that Bruce Wayne is an abusive bastard, which isn't that far off the mark.

The water starts up, hitting the tile floor with a faint tinkling noise, and Dick backtracks across the room to me. His fingers slip into one of the pockets hidden almost  _perfectly_  inside the black suit, blended in to make it look like part of his frame. I know where they are, I've watched Dick too much to not know, but if you didn't know better you could make the mistake of thinking that Dick didn't have the same tricks up his sleeves or in his belt as Bruce or I do. The key he retrieves is small, silver, and he presses up unnecessarily close to my shoulder to reach around and fit it into the cuffs, unlocking them with a soft click.

I could have picked them — I know how to pick or hack just about every kind of lock that exists — but not without him noticing, and not without getting all of my weapons and tools stripped off me in punishment. Dick doesn't press close  _just_  because he's that touch oriented, it's also a  _damn_  efficient way for him to keep track of what someone's muscles are doing even if he can't see them beneath their clothes. He's crazy, but anyone who thinks he doesn't know exactly what he's doing is an  _idiot_.

I can't smother the wince and faint cringe as the metal falls away, and the movement reminds me that I'm pretty sure the edges on those are legitimately  _jagged_  on purpose, and my wrists are at  _least_  bleeding. Dick presses up close against me as I carefully pull my arms forward to a more natural position, gritting my teeth against the pain that comes from rolling my left shoulder forward. I'm not totally sure what Dick did to it, but it'll probably be fine given some time. It doesn't feel like torn muscle, and nothing clicks or grinds in any way that feels unnatural, so it's probably just strained.

I know what's expected of me, and I reach up to shrug out of my jacket before Dick makes a sharply  _angry_  noise and his hand snaps up, yanking my wrist away.

" _No_ ," he hisses, and then in the whiplash  _insanity_  of his normal behavior he's all wide smiles and the roll of hips where he's pressed against me. "Just stay still, little wing… I'll do it."

Which isn't a favor for me in the  _slightest_ , even if Dick knows that undressing will probably be pretty painful for me if I'm not careful about the shoulder, and the ribs. This isn't about making things easier for me, not at  _all._  It's about reminding me that he's my superior in this arena, that he's got me under  _his_  control, and whatever the hell he wants to do, he will. There's something very  _vulnerable_  about being stripped down by someone else, even if you're letting them do it. It's different, almost  _empowering_ , stripping in front of someone else while they watch.  _That_  makes you feel desired,  _this_  makes you feel a bit like a doll. Just standing still while someone else pulls you out of your clothes, and having to stay that way.

With Dick, in particular, it's  _hard_. I've done this before.

He slips around to my back, which makes me a little wary all by itself and totally relaxed at the same time. There's no one I trust  _more_  or  _less_  at my back than Dick, and there's no way in hell I can figure out which of those thoughts is ruling right now. Am I Talon, Jason, Red Hood, or something totally different?

I guess, right now, all I am is  _his_.

His hands wander more than  _anyone_  would think is necessary, but that doesn't surprise me at  _all_. Dick has  _always_  liked to touch, even without purpose. Even before I was allowed to participate in — or was dragged into, really — the later activities with the two of them, Dick was always pressing against me or finding excuses to touch or stroke. It's just part of who he is. His hands run up my arms and over my shoulders before hooking into the collar of my jacket and pulling back. My shoulders draw back automatically, as he strips the brown leather off of me, and I spare a glance to the side to see where he throws it once it's off my arms.

I actually  _like_  that jacket. It's something that's uniquely  _mine_ , something  _I_  got myself with my own resources and invested enough time into to give it all the hidden pockets and spaces that I wanted in it. It's one of the only things I own that wasn't given to me, or that I didn't pick up in some corner of the world off someone's corpse. It's  _mine_  in a way that not much else is.

It lands on the countertop stretching along the wall to our right, and Dick catches my gaze in the mirror above it. His mouth curves into a grin, teeth flashing as he leans his head into the back of my neck, hands pressing firmly but not painfully, yet, against my hips.

"Don't worry about it," he croons into my skin, hands slipping to intertwine with mine and squeeze once,  _hard_. "I only touch what's  _mine_ , little wing, you remember that."

"That's a bad nickname," I manage, holding his gaze and trying not to look at my own reflection in the mirror. Mirrors don't hold much more than  _nightmares_  for me now, ever since the pit. I shiver when Dick's teeth close on the skin over one of the knobs of my spine, biting down hard enough to ache, sting, leave an imprint of his teeth, but not to break my skin.

"Why's that?" Dick asks, his breath warm over the bitten flesh and his lips still touching it. His head turns sideways, meeting my look more squarely, lips curving in a smirk even though his eyes are still covered by the domino mask lying across his face and framing his cheeks into something that's not quite human looking anymore. Almost ethereal, which fits  _right_  in with how he moves.

"I'm bigger than you are," I point out, easily resisting the urge to pull my hands away from his because the larger part of me likes the touch. "I haven't been 'little' in a long time."

He shrugs, smirk growing just a little wider. "You'll always be my  _little_  brother, Jason," he says in what's practically a purr, his hands clenching down on mine again. I can't help glaring at him, tensing a little bit.

"You know I  _hate_  it when you call me that," I snap, and he laughs, loud and clear beside my ear. I shudder. Him calling me 'brother' has never sat well with me. Not when I was younger, and barely felt like he was even family, and  _definitely_  not once Bruce and Dick pulled me into their games. We might be 'family', but nothing about what we do except the loyalty feels anything like it. I'm… I'm  _theirs_ , but I'm not Dick's brother and I'm  _definitely_  not Bruce's son. Not by blood and not by anything else, either.

He releases my hands, touching my hips and deftly sliding his fingers up underneath the mess of my once-white shirt. The feel of his gloves against my bare skin speeds my pulse in a way I can't hope to control, and I swallow and yank my gaze away from his.

"Relax,  _Jason_ ," Dick whispers in my ear, fingertips lingering for several long moments before he hooks them around the bottom of my shirt and pulls up. The second of panic where it slides over my head, blinding me for a moment, is a familiar feeling, and almost enough to block out the sharp pain of having to raise my arms to let him pull it completely off. He drops that on the floor without any sort of care, which I guess is fine; it's not like it's salvageable anyway.

His hands might stroke in ways that are completely useless, but his fingers are deft and practiced as he disengages the straps and clips holding my armored padding in place and pulls it off of me in a way that almost feels like mercy; off my uninjured shoulder instead of the hurting one. That joins my jacket on the countertop, and I fight the desire to shiver as the air — tainted warm and damp by the steam rising from the shower — rushes around my bare skin, and Dick gives a pleased hum as he leans against me. The feel of his costume against my back is another familiar feeling, the only variation the strip of armor and then skin from the slice along his ribs.

I tilt my head back a bit and try to keep my breathing even as his hands explore along the front of my chest, tracing scars and the natural lines of my muscles, and areas that I'm pretty sure are bruised but  _damn_  I don't know if I can stay still or vaguely in control if I watch him touch me, so I haven't looked.

Dick's mouth settles against the back of my right shoulder, teeth grazing just a  _little_  bit, before his hands slide down my ribs to the edge of my black jeans and the belt holding them up. My breath hitches when his thumbs slip under the rough fabric, pressing down into the hollows of my hips and  _Christ_ , I'd forgotten what this was like. I'd forgotten how much I could  _want_  Dick's touch even when I  _don't_  want it, and how damn  _good_  he is at building stress and anticipation until his victim snaps. It's Dick's favorite game.

My eyes slide closed, a tiny shudder shaking me as his fingers slide a little further in and he  _bites_  down on my shoulder with a roll of his hips against my back and ass, and I give a strangled little sound that I will deny till the end of the world was a whimper, and then he's  _gone_.

My eyes snap open as he abruptly pulls sharply away, and  _viciously_  swallow down another sound that wants to leave me. I'm scared it will come out wanting and  _desperate_ , and  _fuck_  no I'm not doing that. Not until I have to or he makes me, whichever happens first. I jerk my head to the side, finding him in the mirror and watching him casually walk over to the bathroom door, shutting it and turning back to me with a smile that's too damn innocent for him to not know exactly what he's doing to me. Dick  _always_  knows what he's doing to other people, especially when he's making them desperate in  _any_  sense of the word.

His hips twist with each step in a motion that's just a little exaggerated, and he circles to stand in front of me. I swallow back the urge to step back as he gets uncomfortably close, and then a second urge to get  _closer_  and feel him up against me. I  _won't_  do this, I  _won't_  make the first step or betray just how much I want him, how much I've  _missed_ this feeling.

Fuck, I stopped wanting to be Talon, I stopped wanting to call this place home a long time ago, but  _this_  is what I wanted when I came out of the pit.  _This_  is what Talia couldn't do for or to me. She couldn't make me  _want_  the way that Dick can, that even  _Bruce_  can in a very different way. She was pretty, and soft to the touch, and yielded under my touch with the most perfect arches, and  _none_  of that was what I wanted. In the back of my head I imagined hands at my sides and a body pressed flush against my back, teeth in my shoulder and the hard grasp of a hand at my throat or on my thigh.

I wanted  _Bruce_ , I wanted  _Dick_ , I wanted to feel like I was really  _wanted_ , and I wanted to  _want_  equally as strongly in return.

It was  _this_.

Dick gives me a sharp, knowing smile. Not Bruce's cooler one, but one that takes the knowledge and  _flings_  it back in your face with a laugh. His hands hook into the front of my jeans, tugging me forward half a step to close the distance, and I try not to let my breathing change any more than it already has as he lays the length of his frame up against my thicker one and  _smirks_. Not that it  _matters_ , he can feel my pulse and that's  _damn_  telling all on its own, but I can try for at least a little bit of control. I don't have to give into him that quickly.

He makes a little  _sound_ in the back of his throat, a small  _wanting_  noise that's  _totally_  at odds with the bright wickedness of his smirk, and all my effort crumbles into the ground. My breath stops for a moment and  _Christ_ , that must be a new trick because I have  _never_  heard Dick make a noise like that before, not even under Bruce's hands. When did  _that_  become a thing?

I reach for him,  _desperately_ , and suddenly his hand is digging  _sharply_  into my ribs and I suck in a short breath and nearly choke. I fold over onto him with a pained noise and he clicks his tongue in disapproval.

"Ah-ah," he mocks, fingers easing back over my ribs as I shudder and pant through the sudden swap from desire to  _pain_. "You haven't been punished yet, little wing," he says softly, into my ear where my head is collapsed forwards onto his shoulder, "so you don't  _get_  to touch."

I should have figured that. Dick's  _favorite_  game, after all. Seeing how far he can push before someone snaps. He wins, I lose;  _fuck_  that hurts.

Dick's lips press briefly against the side of my face, and then he's rolling his shoulder to force me up and away from him, and mostly out of fear of another jab at my injured ribs, I pull back. Straightening up is hard, and my breathing patterns are a  _mess_ , but I manage it. I really shouldn't have even been surprised, but I guess it's been long enough since I've dealt with Dick that I'd forgotten the way he plays.

"There," he murmurs, "that's better."

He waits a moment, one hand lingering against my ribs and the other still tucked partially inside my jeans, before withdrawing both and sinking to his knees in front of me. Even  _with_  the aftershocks of pain twitching through me, that sight's nearly enough to make me forget all about it. It definitely makes me have to catch my breath again, as he smirks up at me, fingers trailing down my legs. They slide all the way down to my combat boots, but his gaze stays fixed on mine as he undoes the laces entirely by touch and pulls them loose. I swallow thickly as he leans forward to press his face in against my thigh, giving a pleased hum as his hands slide down my calf in a strong grip and pull the boot from my right foot, hooking the sock underneath with it.

I bite down on my tongue until I taste blood, because I'm pretty sure anything that might come out of my mouth right now will be something I  _don't_  want to to say. Like begging, or just inarticulate noises that will all translate out to 'oh god,  _please_.'

He repeats the process on my left leg, lifting my foot just enough to get the boot off me, and then leans into me and makes another pleased noise, and I almost choke on my own damn tongue even with it still between my teeth as he turns his head in towards my leg and mouths at my jeans. Fuck I can  _feel_  his teeth even through the denim, and the warm wetness of his tongue as it presses against me. I… I…  _Fuck_.

Dick pulls back and slides up my leg, smoothly graceful in all the ways I  _can't_  be right now because he's so damn attractive and distracting, his hands sliding up my leg as he straightens a little farther up. My breath catches and I have to choke back a moan as the hand on my inner thigh presses firmly against it and then instantly trails off into a feather-light ghost across the fabric covering my crotch. Poorly covering, straining forward and I'm so hard it fucking  _hurts_.

If this whole denial thing is my punishment — I wish that was  _true_ , but I'm not that naively optimistic — than I give them serious props. This is  _torture_ , and that's coming from a guy who got beaten and tortured to death by an alien and his clone over quite a few hours. They'd never stand a  _ghost_  of a chance against Dick's kind of skills, and this is just what my psychopathic older not-brother does for  _fun_. This is  _playing_ , not business.

I shove a breath out through my teeth, clenching my hands to keep from trying to touch him again, and he laughs, his hips pressing in against mine and  _rolling_  in a way I've never seen anyone but fucking  _strippers_  do with that kind of skill.

"Didn't I tell you to  _relax_ , Jason?" he purrs, his hands sliding down to dip beneath my jeans again, and I choke back another cross between a whimper and a moan, my head arching back a bit.

" _Fuck_  you," I manage to get out, even if it is breathy and not at  _all_  the snarled insult that I wanted it to be. I'm kind of proud that I managed to get  _anything_  out of my mouth that wasn't just a moan or an incoherent plea.

Dick's laugh is sharp and bright, and his smirk is the best embodiment of  _sin_ that I've ever seen. "Maybe later," he whispers like he's telling me a secret, and I swear to god I stop breathing for a few seconds before I jerk, shudder, and make one of those wordless, whimpering  _pleas_  through my gritted teeth that I promised myself I wasn't going to make.

His hands slip inwards, palming firmly over my crotch, and I can feel myself trembling with trying to hold myself back as another choked sound makes it past my teeth. The zipper feels like it comes down one tooth at a time, as Dick flicks the button through it's accompanying hole as easily as he might put a blade in somebody's side. The pressure isn't quite as intense once the zipper hits bottom, and Dick's hands rise to my belt. The tug of it through the loops is smooth, barely any yank to it, and Dick makes a thoughtful, amused sound.

I flinch and startle when his hand wraps around the back of my neck, pulling my head down to meet his and then  _dragging_  me to a stop when we're just a fraction of an inch apart. When his lips are so close I can fucking  _imagine_  the taste of them, and all I want to do is pull that last little bit forward but I  _can't_. I hate the whimper that slips out of my mouth, but I can't help it. His hand clenches down, holding me right where I am, and his hips roll forward into me again. I choke.

" _Beg me_ ," his says into the fraction of space between our lips, "and I'll make this easier on you."

I can't even  _pretend_  to not be completely at his whim.

" _Please_ ," I answer, shuddering and trying not to reach forward and touch him because I  _know_  he won't appreciate or tolerate it.

He makes a small, pleased noise, and presses a little tighter into me. " _More_ , Jason.  _Beg_." His voice is a little darker, demanding and  _ordering_  instead of asking, and  _fuck_  if it doesn't drive me even farther towards the point of no return.

"God,  _fuck_ ,  _please_  Dick.  _Please_." I don't even know what I'm begging for, I have no idea what he meant, but I don't even  _care_. Dick can do anything he damn well wants to me right now and I won't stop him, I'll  _welcome_  it. " _Anything_ , Dick.  _Please_."

The noise Dick makes is a sharp little inhale, and for once I know it isn't faked because I can feel the hard press of his cock  _throb_  against my hip, and it drives an answering whimper from my throat.

"Of  _course_ , Jason," he whispers, voice heavy and thick with lust and something more. "Since you asked so  _nicely_."

I don't know what I'm expecting, but I'm not expecting him to let go of my neck and grab my wrists, dragging them behind my back as he leans forward into my shoulder. I feel the loop of my belt around them, and stifle the hysterical laugh that bubbles up sharply and suddenly in my chest and up my throat as Dick pulls the belt tight and ties my hands behind me. The belt won't hold me if I fight it, but I can  _let_  it keep me tied and not pull as hard as I'm  _capable_ of.

Make it easier. No touching.  _Fuck_  did I fall right into that one. I think… I think I'm almost grateful.

"There," Dick whispers into my throat, teeth nipping before closing down and biting  _hard_ , drawing the skin between his teeth and rolling it. It hurts, but  _everything_ with Dick hurts. "Isn't that better, little wing?" he says when he pulls back, and I can only offer a choked little plea in answer. Dick makes a crooning, sympathetic, soothing noise against my throat and presses a gentle kiss to the skin just underneath the right side of my jaw, with only the faintest hint of teeth to it. "It's alright, Jason, I  _have_  you."

His hands slip back around to my front, dipping between our bodies — which, thank  _god_  but  _curse_  the bastard too, makes him pull a little bit away from me — and falling to the front of my jeans. I can't hold my head up even  _with_  how tense the rest of me is, and I lean forward into Dick expecting a jab to my ribs. He makes another mockingly sympathetic noise, but doesn't hurt me even when I tuck my head down against his shoulder, my jaw clenching tight as his hand sinks into my jeans with the ease of practice, wrapping around my length.

I make another choked noise into the solid warmth of his shoulder, and I can feel him smirk against my throat as his other hand pushes down on my jeans, pushing them off my hips as he rubs at me and I try not to shake and tremble under his touch. My jeans fall to my ankles, and he releases me to peel my boxers down as well. I'd swear to the fucking  _world_  that I didn't make the desperate whimpering  _whine_ that claws itself out of my throat.

"Shhh," Dick whispers, his hands returning to stroke up my ribs and then across my back and down to the bare flesh of my hips. I'm not crazy or far gone enough to buck forward for some kind of contact, but it's a close thing and his hands at my hips are a reminder  _not_  to. "Come on, Jason," he murmurs, stepping back and taking my arm, leading me firmly towards the back of the room and the shower.

My legs aren't particularly steady under me, and  _fuck_  if I can really concentrate on anything but the rush of air over the more sensitive,  _aching_  bits of me, but I manage to keep my feet.  _Ninja_  training. It comes in handy even during the most  _ridiculous_ of times.

Dick turns and pushes me up against the tile next to the open entrance of the shower, and I cringe away from the cold wall with a small gasp. Dick holds me there by pressing down on my injured shoulder, lifting his other hand to his mouth and biting down on the tip of one finger, pulling his hand out of the glove inch by inch. I forget about the coldness of the wall entirely, and the noise that drags out of my throat isn't even enough to be called a whimper. It's just a exhalation of breath that might have some kind of higher pitch to it. God,  _fuck_ , Dick has me completely in his sway and under his control, and I can't even start to pretend otherwise.

It's  _true_ , I'm  _his_ , and I  _swore_  to myself that I wouldn't let my not-brother do this to me again but  _fuck_ , here I am. Why did I ever even try to stop him? Fighting Dick only ever makes him more persistent and determined to  _win_  and make you kneel at his feet.

I would,  _gladly_ , if it meant he'd give me  _anything._

The glove drops to the floor, released from between Dick's teeth, and he reaches around the corner with his now bare hand, into the water to test its temperature. He's not even  _looking_  at me, and the hand on my shoulder feels incidental more than the purposeful I  _know_  it is.

There's nothing  _crueler_  than Dick ignoring you once he's got you worked up. Fucking  _nothing_.

The door opens, and my head snaps around. Dick's turns, slowly.

Bruce steps inside, one eyebrow arched high over the accompanying eye. His gaze drags slowly, like a physical caress, down my frame, lingering for a moment before drawing back up equally as slowly. He closes the door behind him, and reaches down to flick the lock on it with deliberate intent.

"My business is done with for now," he says smoothly, turning back to both of us, "so I thought I might join you." He's in the nearly skintight black tank top that he wears underneath his suit, and the pair of equally black slacks that he keeps down in the Roost so he has something he can change into when he comes out of the Owlman suit. It's about the most casual that Bruce ever gets, unless you catch him in the early morning when he's in boxers and nothing else. Those are rare moments though. He approaches, and out of the side of my vision I can see Dick give a slow smile and then a wicked grin.

He pushes down on my shoulder, forcing me down to my knees on the tile with a small grunt of pain, as Bruce comes closer, and then leaves his hand resting lightly there as a silent order to not get back up.

Bruce's hand is gentle as he reaches out and skims it across Dick's cheek, and Dick leans into the touch with a smile and what I'm pretty sure are closed eyes, even if I can't actually see them. I swallow as Bruce steps up directly next to my not-brother, lining against the edge of him, and Dick arches up in the most fucking  _teasing_ ,  _poised_  way I think is possible, mouth parting just a little bit. Bruce starts to lean down, and then catches my gaze and gives a small smirk, his other hand rising to touch the center of Dick's chest and then laying flat against it.

"I don't think he deserves it," Bruce says softly, and after a moment of arched  _anticipation_  Dick's mouth curves in a wide grin and he relaxes a bit, turning to look down at me.

"Mmm, you're right, Bruce. Not till he's been punished." I admit, I've got no  _clue_  what they're talking about. Don't deserve what? Them? The two of them? I don't  _understand_  and I have  _not_ got enough of a brain left to try and figure it out.

Bruce's hand drops to the pocket of his slacks, and emerges with a dark red piece of cloth wound around his knuckles that he dangles up in the air between the two of them. Dick makes a sound that is  _viciously_  pleased, teeth showing in a wide grin as he presses up against Bruce. Oh,  _oh no_. No  _way_.

Bruce disengages from Dick and leans down, his fingers dragging my jaw upwards with the other hand. "Until you're punished, Jason, you don't deserve to see what the two of us have to offer. You'll have to settle with imagining it I suppose, until we've forgiven you." I jerk a little bit as he winds the cloth around my head, over my eyes, breathing sharply in. As if I wasn't fucking  _vulnerable_  enough already.

My pulse picks up as Bruce's hands fall away, and adrenaline feeds itself into my veins. I'm not a big fan of blindfolds, I'm not really a big fan of not being able to see period, even though I can fight without my sight just fine. It… I feel… I was at their mercy  _enough_ already, wasn't I? Except that this isn't about being  _vulnerable_ , it's about control. It's  _always_  about control. About how much Dick can twist me around his fingers, and about how much Bruce can stand over both of us and be our  _god_.

I force my breathing to even out, twisting my wrists briefly against the belt around them — which makes the wounds torn into them sting and burn a bit — before easing into surrender. It doesn't matter what they do, I have  _no_  control here and  _that's_  the point. I  _can't_  do anything and I am  _completely_  at the mercy of their whims. There's no point in fighting it. It's not any different than letting Bruce control my breathing.

"That's good," Bruce says softly, and his fingers — thicker than Dick's more nimble hands — trace over my cheek and briefly to my throat before pulling away. "Stand, Jason." I test my balance for a second before slipping back to my heels and pushing to my feet, using the wall at my back as a measure and a point of stability as I unfold. I get rewarded with another touch to my neck when I'm straight again, a gentle stroke. "Stay."

I can hear something that sounds like cloth, and then a pleased sound that's undoubtedly Dick's voice followed by a quiet chuckle from Bruce, and I clench my hands together to not try and do anything stupid.  _Not_  my scene,  _not_ my choice, let it go.

It's  _sick_ , and not surprising at  _all_  to me, how much this arouses me. I have no  _idea_  if this kind of surrender was  _always_  what made me feel this way, but it has been for a long time. It's what Dick and Bruce taught me to do, what I was trained to do. It's what I  _enjoy_  in a way that makes me tremble and shake and wonder what's  _wrong_  with my head sometimes. What  _isn't_  wrong? Better question.

Dick's bare hand closes around my upper arm and pulls me — firmly but slowly, so I don't fall — around the edge of the tile and into the shower. I flinch when the spray hits me, but the water is hot and feels  _good_ after the initial surprise, even as it stings in the wounds at my wrists and the scratches under my chin that I'd completely forgotten about. I try not to think about the almost completely guaranteed possibility that both Bruce and Dick are in here, also naked.

It doesn't work very well, especially not after Bruce's hand slides across and over my shoulder, and I can feel the wet press of a body that's too thick to be Dick's press against my side. Bare skin slides against mine, and I swallow and hold back a choked noise when Bruce's lips press down against my shoulder and the vibration of a low, satisfied rumble slips through my body. My neck arches back a little bit, my teeth clenching as Bruce's lips twist in a smile that I can feel against my skin.

 _God_.

His hand closes around the front of my throat, and I can only step backwards and  _let_ it happen when he pushes me back and up against a wall that's warm from the water and the steam, pinning me there for a moment before releasing my throat.

" _Kneel_ ," he demands, in the low growl of his Owlman voice, and I swallow and obey without even a fraction of a second of hesitation. I sink to my knees on the wet tile, the water coming down on my back and my head, and when Bruce's fingers cup my jaw and his thumb slips forward to press against my lips I open my mouth with a  _desire_  that I don't fully understand but can't even  _consider_ fighting. His thumb pushes inside my mouth, and unlike earlier — where I tolerated it, tried not to think about it — I give a low moan of  _want_  and move forward just a little, sucking on the digit as though it's a thicker, warmer piece of Bruce.

"I'd forgotten what that looks like," I hear Dick say, in a half-breathless voice, and warm  _pride_  burns bright in my chest.  _I_  made him sound that way.  _Me_.

I let my teeth graze just slightly over Bruce's thumb, the slightest hint of pressure, before flattening my tongue down under it and giving another low moan from the bottom of my chest. Because I  _want_  to, because everything in me was created by  _this_  man and I am  _his_  above anything else. Everything I am is for his pleasure,  _always_.

Bruce pulls his thumb back, and then lips are on mine and I recognize the aggressive style as my not-father's, his tongue replacing his thumb and his fingers tightening on my jaw.  _Owning_  me in the way that he always has, and  _god_  it makes me tremble and arch as much as I can. I can't meet him — I can be that aggressive with Dick, but Bruce always manages to leech it out of me — but I don't back down until his hand slips around the back of my head and pulls on my hair,  _hard_ , and I have to pause and still completely for a second as my breath catches in my throat and I make a helpless noise into his mouth that's nearly lost between us and under the sound of the water. He pulls back a little, in a way that almost feels reluctant.

"When your punishment is done," Bruce promises, breathing against my lips, "we'll finish this."

He releases me, and I bow forward because  _fuck_ I can't stay up straight right now, not after that. I'd  _forgotten_ so much of what this was really like. I dreamed about it of course, fantasized in the moments I could bring myself to, but fantasies are  _nothing_ like the reality. I didn't remember what it felt like to have Bruce pressed against me, to have Dick twist me and taunt me like he does, to be back  _home_. This is everything I need, right here. Why did I ever think I needed anything  _else?_

A few moments pass, and then I can hear Dick give a laugh that's equally as breathless as his voice was. I can hear the click of a cap over the sound of the water against the tile, and then two hands — Dick's, I decide almost instantly — slip into my wet hair, massaging against my scalp, and the sharp scent of whatever he's using reaches my nose after a moment. I stay still, fighting the urge to arch under his touch and crane up into it.

The water washes down face, and I snap my mouth shut all the way when the tainted taste of the parts of it infected with shampoo reach my lips. I keep my head carefully at an angle where I can breathe through my nose without inhaling water with it, and sink into the enjoyment of Dick's hands. They skim around the tie of the blindfold, pulling some of my hair out from under it in a way that almost feels gentle, nails scratching  _just_  hard enough over my scalp to feel good without hurting.

They leave me for a moment, and then return after the snap of another cap, rubbing down over my shoulders and back, following the lines of my body. I grit my teeth to not make any noise and fight to not move, swallowing and twitching under the sure, firm, rub of hands. Some of the places where he rubs sting,  _sharply_ , and in the back of my head I know I'm cataloguing where the scrapes in my skin are, and how bad each one is. But it's background, something automatic to keep the combative, honed killer part of me contained and quiet. I don't need it right now.

I drag in a shallow breath when Dick's hands dip shamelessly down, sliding over my ass and down to cup first my balls and then my cock. It's not  _necessary_ , but he gives it several long strokes — driving a rush of air between my teeth — before letting go. I don't know if he moves away, or stands, or if he was ever even kneeling, but I clench my hands and swallow thickly again, trying to get back some kind of control.

 _Lost_  cause, but I can't help trying.

I flinch when there's the thud of flesh hitting tile, semi-drowned out by the water but loud enough for me to hear it and hard enough for me to feel the impact in the vibration of the floor beneath me. What the  _hell?_  Dick gives another breathless laugh — this one edged in something  _dangerous_  — that cuts sharply off with a gasp I can just barely hear.

Instinct screams to turn my head and push the blindfold off with my shoulder, but I don't because I'm too well  _trained_. Rationally I know that the chances of anything happening inside Wayne manor to the two scariest men I know, without me being affected or also attacked, is unlikely verging on  _impossible_. There would be some other clue. This is just… this is something between them. By the sound, the laugh… I'd guess Bruce has Dick up against the wall doing… Doing whatever the  _hell_ Bruce wants to do to him.

 _God_  I want to see. This does not make the urge to pull my blindfold off any weaker. The only thing holding me back is that  _fuck_ , the two of them are going to hurt me badly enough as it is, and I'm  _so_  not down to add any more to that. I've got  _no_  delusions about how irritated Bruce would be if I pulled the blindfold off, or I slipped the belt around my wrists. Dick wouldn't mind, me being  _bad_  only means he gets to hurt me  _more_  and he'll  _love_  that, but Bruce prefers it when his playthings never step out of line at all. Pain, power.

I'm not a  _masochist. That_ I know for certain.

Dick gives a cry that bounces off the tiles, high-pitched and almost  _pained,_  and I nearly fucking  _seize_. I have to bite down on my own tongue to keep from moaning, and that all goes to hell when he gives  _another_  noise over the sound of the water and my world twists and warps around me, my senses focusing in on the location of the noise and  _nothing_  else. Damn the water, damn the feeling of the tile on my knees or the pain of the leather belt around my torn wrists, nothing but Dick's voice matters. My breath catches and stutters at the bright,  _startled_  sound Dick makes next, and I squeeze my eyes shut under the blindfold.

If I think hard enough, to before all of the  _shit_  that led to me dying, back when I was still at home here, I can match together the sounds Dick is making with what Bruce is doing to him.

Not precisely, and god there's no part of me that doesn't wish right now that I'd never left and that I  _deserved_  to watch the two of them together, because it doesn't matter what I can imagine it just  _doesn't_  add up to the real thing. Adding on the picture of Dick arching against tile and Bruce's form, one hand pinned by his head and the other clenched against his own thigh while he twists and makes that perfect little  _shaking_  cry, Bruce's hand wrapped around him, is  _not_  the same as seeing it. My memory is good, but not good enough to catch the  _feeling_  of seeing that. Of what's happening maybe four feet to my left, of what I'm not  _allowed_  to see because they're still upset with me and  _fuck_  now I really  _am_  sorry.

I'd take all of it back right now if it meant they'd let me join in, and there's enough of me that thinks it's a good idea that I have to clench my hands hard until my dull nails bite into my own flesh to not try and move.

Regretful or not, I  _did_ do what they're excluding me for, and nothing I can do will convince them to change their minds until they're ready to. I know better than to think that pretty words will change Bruce's mind when it's made up, or that Dick will give up the option and intention to  _hurt_ me for my mistakes so easily. Nothing but taking it out on me will satisfy the two of them.

I'd guess that this is unintentional, that it really was just supposed to be a shower and a way to get the grime of Gotham off of me and Dick before things moved on. But Dick being who he  _is_ , turning everything into an intimate scene like he's about to fuck you where you're standing — if he doesn't slice you apart with his bare hands first — is something not even Bruce can always deny.  _I_  definitely can't. What they're doing is probably just a way to work off the tension, get them both relaxed and patient enough to do whatever they're going to do to me without the distraction of being so heavily aroused. Of course  _I'm_  not going to get that same consideration, me being painfully,  _stupidly_  hard is just bonus as far as they're concerned. I know  _that_  too.

There's another slam against the wall — quieter this time, a hand on a wrist, maybe? — and Dick gives another of his breathless laughs, the edge to it sharp and  _desperate_. I can't breathe for a second, and right when I can Dick gives a stilted, shaking cry that steals it right back out of me and somehow dries my throat even though I'm  _surrounded_ by water. I've heard that cry dozens of times, torn and  _ripped_  out of his throat in one  _single_  situation. When he's coming apart, trembling and arching and for one  _amazing_  second letting someone else undo  _him_  in the same way that he takes apart everyone else.

There's silence for a long time, past the water I can't hear anything loud enough to give me a clue of exactly what's happening, and I clench my jaw tight and try not to think about what's probably happening. I do anyways.

When the two of them aren't actually fucking, when it's mouths and hands and  _teeth_ , Bruce brings Dick off first. Then, usually, Dick sinks to his knees and plays  _worshipper_ , hands gentle on Bruce's thighs in a way he only  _ever_  is with the two of us — and only me when I can't fight him, when I'm exhausted and hurt and he can touch me whatever way he wants — and his mouth a perfect, warm circle. Bruce's hands will thread through his hair, touching and  _owning_ , but not stopping him or holding him still. Accepting the touch and the worship with half-lidded eyes and a slightly open mouth that curls into a baring of teeth when he's closer. If Dick is doing a particularly good job he might tilt his head back or shiver.

And when he's done he'll spill down Dick's throat and Dick will  _swallow_  with that pleased little grin and the most  _amazing_  purr of noise because Dick loves little else more than being used by Bruce.

 _Fuck_ , why did I  _do_  all that  _stupid_  shit and make them mad at me?

A hand fists in my hair — I startle — and drags me up, and lips come down over my own. I suck in a sharp breath, a tongue dipping between my teeth and holy  _fuck_  not only is it Dick but he tastes like  _Bruce_  and I can't help the whimpering moan that I voice into Dick's mouth as I shudder and fold underneath his attention.

 _Whatever_  they want,  _anything_. I will promise  _anything_  and  _mean_  it if they just let me be part of this, let me be one of them again. Why did I try and lie to myself and say I didn't  _want_  this?

The water shuts off, and Dick pulls back and away from me. "Feel what you've missed, little wing?" he asks, whispering and then biting down on the curve of my ear. Not hard enough to even sting, but I give a gasping  _whine_  anyway.

" _Please,_ " I beg, my voice a rasping mess of  _want_  and  _need_  and god  _please anything you want_.

Dick gives a little laugh into my ear, and releases my hair as he pulls away. "I think he's ready, Bruce," he says, into the air of the room and aimed away from me, and I can hear the faint sounds of Bruce walking across the wet tile to me. Not loud, because even though Dick is the silent one of the three of us Bruce is still better at stealth than I am and he just walks that way by  _nature_.

Fingers pull my chin up, I swallow heavily, and Bruce makes a pleased sound that shoots straight to my cock. Not that it actually needed any more of that. "Yes, it looks like he is." The fingers let go of me, and I can hear him moving away. "Dry him off and bring him out, Dick, I'll set what we'll need up."

The rough touch of the towel almost feels painful to my far too sensitive skin, and I do my best to hold still as Dick drags me up and — with apparently no regard for the fact that I'm hard as all hell and  _aching_  — dries the water off me with fairly rough scrubbing. It must be purposeful because the towels up here are so damn soft you'd have to  _try_  to make one feel rough, I know from experience.

The blindfold doesn't come off, neither does the belt, and the second I'm dry Dick takes me by the elbow of my uninjured right arm and pulls me forward. I can only let him lead me across the room and — I count steps in the back of my head — out into Bruce's bedroom, beyond. The change of air from the steam of the bathroom to the faintly cold outside, makes me shiver and pause for just a second. I end up stumbling, because Dick makes no allowance for me adjusting to temperature changes. He shoves me to my knees some ways across the room — I don't remember the dimensions of Bruce's room well enough to know precisely where I am in it — and his hand curls into my damp hair and pulls down and back to arch my throat.

My breath catches, and I give a soft keening noise that I can't  _believe_  I'm even capable of. First time for everything, I guess.  _Fuck_  do the two of them know how to push every damn button that I have. Repeatedly. Until they  _stick_.

"I'm going to untie you, little wing," Dick murmurs into my ear — when the hell he got down on my level I don't  _know_ — in a mockery of a lover's whisper, "and you're going to stay  _very_  still and not move unless we  _make_  you, understand?"

" _Yes_ ," I choke out, and he makes a pleased noise. His other hand touches my wrists, and the belt slides loosely enough to fall off my hands in just a moment. I lace my fingers together to keep them there, and his teeth settle against my throat as the hand in my hair slides upward to the knot of the blindfold. That comes away just as easily, and though I can see the increase of light through my eyelids I don't open them. Not unless they  _tell_  me to, that's the rule.

A soft cloth runs over my face — and I can  _feel_  both of Dick's hands so it must be Bruce holding it — to remove the last of the moisture from where the wet blindfold sat, and then it falls away to be replaced with lips against my forehead.

"That's  _good_ , Jason," he says quietly, and I swallow and resist leaning up to try and follow his mouth when it pulls back.

Another piece of cloth touches my face and loops back around my head, a dry blindfold to replace the wet one, and Dick ties it at the base of my skull with a single hand. He takes my wrists in his hand and pulls them apart, pushing my hands forward past my body and into the air in front of me, where Bruce's larger hands circle them and Dick lets go. Dick presses against my back, arms circling my waist, as Bruce lays both my hands on what feels like… upholstery? A cushion, chair? It's hard to say and I don't have the brain to run through my memories of all the different things I've touched to figure it out.

Leather — real leather, and much thicker than my belt — loops around my right wrist, pulling firmly closed but not tight enough to be uncomfortable, and I hear the click and rattle of what sounds like chains. The left wrist gets the same treatment, another…  _cuff._  They're cuffs, and I'm chained to… something.

I swallow, pulling just a little bit to test the restraints, and Dick grips me a little tighter. "Relax," he orders, "you'll be pulling  _plenty_ later, little wing. They'll hold, I  _guarantee_  it." That doesn't make me feel any better about this.

The playing is  _done_. These are quality, built to last, cuffs by the feel of them, and I  _know_  Bruce's chains are always sturdy. Whatever punishment they have in mind they expect me to fight, to struggle, to lose  _control_  over how hard I pull. These are built to keep me exactly where they want me, no matter how hard I fight them. But Dick and Bruce  _know_  how good my control is, how well they  _trained_  me to be, and yeah maybe I'm not showing my best face with how easily Dick played me, but that's not… That's Dick's skill, not  _my_  failing.

Bruce's hands touch my face, cupping my jaw and my cheeks, and he makes another of his small, pleased sounds. "Your tools are on the bed, Dick," he says, over my head, and pulls me forward a bit. Dick releases me and pulls away, and I do an awkward shuffle forward on my knees, until my arms are bent a bit and not outstretched like they were before. Warmth and the feeling of cloth — silk, I'm pretty sure — presses in against my shoulders; my left one twinges and flinches in protest at the touch. It takes me a second, as Bruce strokes his fingers against my skin and up through the fringes of my hair, to realize that the silk-covered warmth is legs. Whatever I'm chained to, Bruce is sitting on it with his legs spread to either side of me, and my wrists are attached… below it, I think?

It's really not doing me any good trying to think of relative positions while everything else is going on and there's so much distraction. I don't know this room well enough to know what I could be attached to, and I have no  _idea_  if Bruce might have brought something else in especially for this. It's actually fairly likely, since I'm pretty sure there's not much in his room that could be used as a stability point for chains, against someone with my kind of strength and instinctive training.

Wait… scratch that. There definitely  _are_  — Dick is fucking  _gorgeous_  with his hands bound above his head, which is why I know that — but I can't think of any off the top of my head that would be this low to the floor, and that Bruce could sit on top of while I was chained to it.

The snap of  _something_  in the air makes me jerk, cutting off  _all_  my thoughts of what I'm chained to, and Bruce's hands tighten and hold my head in place against everything that says I should turn and try to figure out what the  _hell_  that was. It snaps again, adrenaline mixing into my veins and making my breathing and my pulse pick up, and one of Bruce's hand rubs down my neck to my shoulder.

"Easy, Jason. You'll live," his tone is almost dismissive, and I grit my teeth as it clicks that Bruce is getting distant again and  _fuck_  he's not going to rein Dick in at  _all_. Dick is dangerous all on his own, but this is  _permission_ for my not-brother to be as mean as he  _wants_  and that's just  _bad_. 'Living' isn't exactly a nice promise, it just means I'll  _survive_. 'Nothing permanent' would be better, but Bruce didn't  _say_  that so for all I know Dick could take a knife to my skin and lay me open to  _bone_  and Bruce wouldn't  _stop_  him.

The whatever the  _fuck_  it is snaps  _right_  next to my ear — I can feel the rush of air — and I jerk  _hard_  against the restraints and Bruce's hands.  _Fuck_  this not-moving thing. The restraints hold without even a creak of protest from the metal, the leather, or whatever I'm attached to, and I shudder and then instantly  _still_  while my mind shifts over into what I fondly like to call 'killer-mode.' The cool front of my training slips into place over the rest of my emotions and sharpens my focus, blanking out feeling in favor of what  _needs_  to and  _must_  be done, equally ready to kill or run as my mind takes a step back from my situation and surveys it critically.

Unfortunately, even as my world condenses and narrows into facts and figures, my mind offering up possibilities of escape or retribution, the grim  _fact_  I come up with is that with Bruce at my front and Dick at my back, I'm just plain  _screwed_. I'm not going anywhere if they don't want me to.

With a mental resigned sigh and shrug I ease into Bruce's touch. Not in the mindless,  _wanting_  way of earlier, but the easy stillness of someone waiting for an opening or a weakness. Panic, anger, and desire fade away, and I twist my wrists against the restraints and  _wait_. I'm patient when I need to be, and even if I never get a chance to get away this shutdown of non-essential emotions, the fall back on logic, training, and patience will make all of this — whatever the fuck  _this_  is — easier to handle. Whatever Dick is going to do to me, this way I can keep together until he breaks me, because I  _know_  his skills and I  _know_  that if he  _wants_  me to break, I  _will_.

I'm pretty damn sure that he's going to take me apart piece by piece until there's nothing left of me and I'm not much more than flesh and blood and tears. I'm pretty sure Bruce is going to let him.

Bruce chuckles, Dick  _laughs_ , and I feel the warmth of skin against my back as Dick layers himself over me and his teeth find purchase in the skin of my throat again. Only for a second, but it's another mark to add to the pattern I'm going to have when I get out of this insanity. One of his hands slides over my ribs on the left side, wrapping up to lie flat against my chest, and he makes a noise into my skin that's somewhere between amused and anticipating.

"I'm going to  _beat_ you, Jason," Dick says softly, like it's a fucking  _promise_  shared between lovers and not this sick  _threat_  between whatever the fuck we are, "and you're going to  _break_  for me." His hand claws down my chest, raking nails down almost to my hips and I jerk back into him but stifle the grunt of pain that wants to leave me, clenching my jaw shut. His hand slips sideways and digs  _sharply_  into the muscle over the bone of my hip, and I clench my jaw a little harder to not give him the noises he wants. "Maybe we can leave something  _permanent_ to remind you what you are, hm?" I can feel him smile against my skin. "Can I, Bruce?" His voice is the perfect,  _strangest_ , mix of innocent and  _sinful_ , and my breath catches.

I am  _not alright_  with Dick leaving whatever the hell he's thinking of on me. If he's going to carve, brand, or scar anything into me—

"I'll tear your  _fucking_  throat out with my teeth first," I snarl, over my shoulder at him. Bruce's fingers contract on my face and my opposite shoulder hard enough to hurt, but Dick only gives another laugh into my flesh.

"You'd have to  _catch_  me," he hisses, and bites down,  _hard_. A groan drags itself out of my throat, I can  _feel_  his teeth sinking through my skin, and then he abruptly pulls them away. "Bruce?" he asks again, with the faintest hint of pleading but I'd bet a lot of money that he's grinning, high on sadism and probably a bit of that orgasm from earlier in the shower.

"We'll see," Bruce says, and I tense.  _Fuck_ , that's not a  _no_. His fingers loosen. "If Jason is pleasing enough, there's no real need, is there?"

Oh, that's not fucking  _fair_.

Dick makes a noise that sounds exaggeratingly disappointed, and then he's pulling away from my back and returning his hand to rest in my hair. He gives a single sharp pull before letting me go. It occurs to me, as he straightens away from me, that I never felt his other hand. Whatever the hell he's about to hit me with — beating, he said and it  _snapped_ , so… a belt, flogger,  _whip?_  — must have been held in that one, and he didn't touch me because he doesn't want me to know what it is.

Bruce's hands slide back into my hair, pulling my head down and I do my best not to fight the silent command, swallowing and letting him angle my head downwards so the back of my neck is exposed. I don't like it, but it's not like I have a choice right now. I shift on my knees, taking a second to be glad that the floor of Bruce's room isn't hardwood like a lot of the rest of the manor, and is actually very comfortable carpet instead. My thoughts wander and wonder if he had it replaced when Dick got here and they started this  _thing_ between them, and he realized that if someone was going to be spending a lot of time in here on their knees they'd want an easier surface to kneel on.

Dick and I  _could_  kneel on hardwood for long periods, if we had to, but it wouldn't be comfortable and we wouldn't appreciate it. Dick, especially might pitch a little bit of a hissy fit, and I might snarl and snap more than usual.

The whistle and sharp  _impact_  against my back jerks me out of my thoughts, and I jerk forwards in startled pain with a gasp as the thing cracks down over my skin. It feels like  _fire_ , like Dick's wielding some kind of thing made with flame instead of whatever leather it is, and it  _hurts_  a lot more than I thought it would. Dick's hit me before, even with some of his arsenal of  _toys_ , but never with the intention to hurt. That was always playing, and the buildup was slow so by the time he was hitting me  _hard_ there was adrenaline and endorphins in my blood and I couldn't feel it nearly as intensely. It was never my thing, but it made Dick happy and Bruce liked to see me beg so I let them do it once or twice.

But not this.

It cracks down again and I bite back a cry of pain, twisting against the leather cuffs and arching my back sideways in instinctive reaction. Dick makes a sharply  _displeased_ noise, and I go briefly rigid when the third strike comes down on my side, flicking across the tender, already bruised skin over my injured ribs. That  _burns_  and  _hurts_  in a way I'd call agony, and I can't fucking breathe for a second at the intensity of it. Dick's hand closes in my hair, wrenching my head back and away from Bruce's grip, teeth snapping in the air beside my ear.

"You stay  _still,_ " he demands, "and I won't do that again. Are we  _clear_ , Jason?"

Like I can  _stay still_. An impossible mercy isn't a  _mercy_  at all, it's just an excuse to hurt someone when they can't do what you want. "Go to  _hell_ ," I snarl at him, breathlessly because I haven't quite managed to recover. "Don't make deals you know I'll never  _keep_ ,  _Dick_."

It snaps down onto my lower back, and with my mouth a bit open I can't stop the cry of pain it drags out of me. God, that's…  _Fuck_. I haven't been  _hurt_  like this, this  _purposefully_ , in a long time, and maybe it was  _dumb_  of me to come back without testing my own ability to take pain first but I didn't think things would be  _this_  bad. Bruce has  _never_  let Dick run this free with  _me_  before, he was always called off before things got too bad. I'm not going to get that rescue now.

"Watch your mouth,  _Jason_ ," Dick answers, pulling my head back a little farther, "or I'll switch to something that will hurt you  _permanently_. Stay  _still_." He shoves my head back forward, and doesn't give me the opportunity to recover before the weapon slashes down once, twice, over my back in rapid succession.

Even as I jerk and try not to twist away, try to hold onto  _some_  measure of my pride, I choke and my hands clench into fists. The rest of me, the part still shoved down and in control, critically analyzes the feeling. Multiple impact points, so something with at least four strands, maybe more. Flogger. The snap calls for leather, and the fact that Dick would  _never_  use something of inferior quality for things like this, things that he  _enjoys_ and is  _good_ at. It burns more than stings, so the strips of leather are narrow and probably pointed at the ends, but not tipped or I'd be in a  _lot_ more pain than I am.

It's going to hurt like a  _bitch_ , but Dick's right, it's not going to cause much permanent damage unless he hits something particularly tender, which he would  _never_  do unless that was his  _intention_. Unless, of course, I twist and his strike falls off where he aimed it, which is probably why he's being snippy about me staying still. Dick would probably like me still usable when he's done with me, unless they're going to kill me at the end of this.

Which they're not, so I shouldn't even let the thought enter my mind. This would be a lot more  _obvious_  if they were going to kill me. This is  _exactly_  what they told me it was going to be.  _Punishment_.

I did something, slept with someone, they didn't appreciate, so Dick is going to  _break_  me, no matter how long it takes, until I remember how strong of a hold they have on me and what  _little_  control I have under their watch. He's going to rip into me and lay me bare and  _raw_ to the air so they can sew me back up and pretend that they were only trying to help me all along, and this was the  _best_ way, and I'll let them do it because  _fuck_ , I don't have any other option.

I'm  _stubborn_ , and I can handle a  _lot_  of pain — Bruce made sure of that, growing up with Dick confirmed that training, and my death at Ultraman and his clone's hands gave me a practical example — but I'm not invulnerable, and Dick knows every weak point I have. He knows, intimately, that anyone will crack or break after enough pressure, and he's  _talented_ when it comes to applying that pressure inch by inch, straining you towards the edge until you're never quite sure where it was that you finally snapped. He's done it to me before, and I've watched him do it to countless others.

Bruce's hands return to my face, cradling it between his hands and idly stroking, and I try not to pull too hard and to just  _weather_  the strikes at my back. It's not really  _working_ , I'm showing a lot more than I'd like and he's digging deeper into my really carefully constructed walls than I want to let him, but I can't help that. Eventually the adrenaline and endorphins will kick in and this will get a little easier.

…

Easier in that the pain will fade a bit, if he hasn't beaten me down by then. It will also get harder, because the chemicals will make me lightheaded, make it much harder for me to control what I say and do, and easier for Dick to reach inside and find the soft parts of me to squeeze and  _tear_ at until he breaks me. Until I collapse at his feet, bleeding and in too  _much_  pain to guard myself, and let him soothe and pretend to put me back together, digging himself further and further into the cracks in my shattering soul until I can't distinguish what was mine from what's  _his_.

I  _know_  what this feels like.

Bruce pulls my head sideways to rest against his thigh, pinning me there with one hand while his other slides into my hair and smooths it away from my neck, from the straining muscle trying in  _total_ vain to protect me from the pain. My breath comes sharp and shallow, where it isn't interrupted by the noises Dick coaxes from my throat — like a fucking dog being given treats to bark — or the freezes of all my systems when Dick hits something in a particularly painful way and my body ceases to function for a second before it remembers that I need to breathe.

My back  _burns_ , a criss cross pattern of sharp lines drawn and  _snapped_  into my flesh, and each new strike reminds my skin it's been hurt before and sets it singing again. My throat works uselessly, swallowing down the phantom taste of blood — because no matter how many times I watched Dick do this I could never believe someone could be in that much pain without bleeding — and trying my best to choke back the noises that I can, or at least strangle the ones that do make it out of my mouth.

It feels  _masterful_  even through the agony, the way Dick keeps one step ahead of what I expect, even though I try my best to remember what he did to other people and figure out what's coming.  _I_  am not other people, and this breaking isn't like the ones he's done to me before. Play, punishment; this is  _so_  much different.

The flogger cracks down high on my back, nearly touching my neck, and then immediately slaps back down in a sharp snap to my right side where it curls and  _smacks_  into my ribs, and I jerk and  _keen_  at the pain of it. Then Dick's hands are in my hair and dragging my head back, and he's pressing tight against me, and I choke and try to  _rip_  away from the sudden pressure against my on  _fire_ back. He doesn't  _let_  me, pressing  _hard_  against my abused skin and dragging the  _nails_  of one hand down the flesh of my side until I give a shuddering, seizing  _cry_  at the  _agony of his touch_.

He gives a bright,  _smiling_  laugh into the back of my neck, only the vicious edge to it separating it from the laugh of a child at play. The edge and his  _nails_  in my bruising, stinging,  _burning_  skin. I wrench against the cuffs and the chains, twisting to try and throw him the hell off me, and his hand flattens between my shoulder blades and  _slams_  me to the ground. My arms jerk up above my head, held by the restraints, and he pins me down by putting his knee in the center of my low back. I kick out, thrashing and making a noise somewhere midway between a snarl and a sob, and his hands rub up over my shoulders and then down again.

Knowing  _why_ doesn't make it hurt any less.

Touching abused skin sensitizes it, convinces the skin that it's going to be touched gently again and it should stop pumping so many chemicals. Rebalances the system to even out pain tolerance again. Not that Dick is going to let it get  _that_  far.

Hands turn to  _nails_  and  _teeth_ , and I don't know what the  _fuck_  my back looks like but it feels like he's tearing gouges into it, dragging furrows in the skin of my shoulder and my back as he works over me. I can feel the warm wetness of tears in my closed eyes, soaking into the blindfold, and I shudder. My hands curl to fists, raking down whatever the hell I'm chained to, and my fingers transition from fabric onto wood after only a moment or two.

If I was in my right mind, if Dick wasn't tearing me to pieces, the feeling probably wouldn't hit me as hard as it does. As it is I go rigid for a moment, the memory digging into my conscious like a knife into flesh, spilling emotion and remembered  _terror_  into my mind.

" _No,_ " I plead, wrenching against the restraints again and jerking underneath Dick's knee. "Let me  _go_ ," I nearly shout, pulling and  _twisting_  to try and get up just a little bit, get just a  _little_  bit of control back.

The situation isn't anything like it was then, but it doesn't  _matter._

My mouth opens in a heaving breath — and my ribs hurt but I barely even notice — and I pull at the wood underneath my nails, staring blindly into the blackness. The air tastes sour and stale in my mouth, silence weighing on me as I scratch at wood and dig and  _dirt_  fills my mouth and I can't fucking  _breathe_.

" _Jason!_ "

 _Light_  burns into my eyes and I flinch and cringe, slamming my eyes shut against it and then immediately snapping them open again because behind my eyes is a darkness more terrifying than  _anything_ else I have  _ever_  known. The light doesn't make much sense to my eyes or to my mind, but I  _can't face_  the darkness so I let it burn away at me, curling in on myself as far as I can and jerking my hands away from the wood beneath them. There are hands on my skin and it  _hurts_  and I don't  _care_  because pain is  _better_  than silence and the cold, moist feel of dirt just soaked through with rain.

I choke on my own air and there's a distant voice telling me  _stop_ , you're  _hyperventilating_ , and I can barely hear it because the silence is so  _loud_  in my ears, blood rushing past and pulse pounding away. Training tells me to calm down, even out my breathing and try to slow down my heart before I pass out, but  _nothing_ ever prepared me for something like this.  _Nothing_  prepared me for waking up inside a coffin and having to claw and  _push_  and  _dig_ at the wood until it gave way to dirt that  _choked me_ , suffocated me and I thought I was going to  _die_  before I felt air on my skin again. I thought I was going to die in the earth and no one would ever know, and then maybe I'd wake up again and it would start all over, and I would die a thousand times with the taste of stale air and soil in my mouth and not  _enough_  to reach the surface.

The sharp,  _stinging_  pain to the side of my face snaps me back to awareness, and, though the terror lingers behind the thinnest barrier of my mind that's ever existed, I swallow and try to focus back in on the world around me. Bruce has my face in his hands, blue eyes narrowed down at me, and Dick is standing behind him, muscles coiled tight and his teeth bared in what looks like a snarl. There's a bright  _concern_  to Dick's gaze, like the worry of a child that's broken its toy, and I choke back a hysterical laugh at the thought.

That's all I am to him, right? That's all I am to both of them.

" _Jason_ ," Bruce says sharply, and I snap my gaze back down to him. I'm curled, in a ball, but the blindfold is gone and my hands might still be bound but at least they're off the  _fucking_  wood. I shudder, and then I realize that I'm trembling and I'm really not sure how to stop. If I  _can_  stop.

" _Bruce_ ," I manage to get out, choking on the words and the air and dirt that isn't even there.

He looks over his shoulder at Dick, who leans in and down and circles to kneel next to me. "Are you  _alright?_ " he demands, and I almost burst into laughter again. I'm sure my eyes are wide, that my chest is heaving, that I look about as mad as the Jokester or the way  _Dick_  can look sometimes, but I can't swallow any of it back or make it go away.

All I can think of is that  _fucking_  coffin. My breathing picks up another notch and Dick claps his hands together in front of my face, close enough to make me flinch back and cringe, eyes squeezing shut and then snapping open again.  _Darkness,_  I  _can't_. I stare at Dick, and he gives a half aborted snarl and leans forward, gathering me into his arms and pulling me out of Bruce's loose grip. His arms are warm and tight around me, clutching like I'm  _precious_ , and I can feel the tears burning in my eyes. I don't  _know_  if they're from keeping my eyes open or because Dick just doesn't  _do_  this and it feels like suddenly I'm actually being cared for, that someone actually is stopping to think of and be concerned about  _me_.

Me, who died and dug his way out of his grave and no one even  _noticed_.

Dick's breath is short and sharp against my neck and my shoulder, and I don't know if that's my shaking or his. "You stupid little  _bastard_ ," he hisses in my ear. "You  _tell me_  what triggers you, you  _idiot_. I can't avoid it if I don't  _know_."

I swallow, and now I'm  _sure_  it's the emotions because the tears leave my eyes and slip down my face, and I bury my face into Dick's bare shoulder and let them come. I  _shouldn't_ , Bruce  _despises_ weakness like this unless he caused it, and Dick is a fucking  _psychopath_  who barely manages to even  _act_  human, let alone be one, but they're my  _family_. It's a fucked up world where these two crazy bastards are the only people I can even  _imagine_  letting my guard down around. The only people who might not eat me alive for it.

Bruce's fingers graze along my wrists and the cuffs fall off under his careful touch, the chains dropping from my wrists, and then he's at my back and  _fuck_ , that still hurts but it's enough to have him there. I can take a little pain to make that happen. I  _can_.

"Tell us what happened," Bruce demands, his fingers carding through my hair and Dick does  _not_ let go of me, clutching at me like I'm going to shatter into a thousand pieces and he can keep me together if he just holds tight enough. It's not that far from accurate. I'm pretty sure his touch is what's keeping me away from the memories trying to drag me into darkness and  _terror._  That, and Bruce's voice in my ear.

I cling to Dick's bare chest, clutching him almost as hard as he's clutching at me, my eyes open and staring but my head staying firmly buried against his shoulder. The darkness still hides behind my eyes, and I swallow and  _shake_ , trying to calm my breathing down and  _not_  able to. Dick makes an unhappy, hissing noise against my neck, hands tightening for just a moment, and Bruce speaks again, sharper this time, a little more  _commanding_.

"Jason,  _now_. What  _happened?_ "

"I—" I'm pretty sure I dig my nails into Dick's back. "I  _died,_ " I manage, and turn just enough to look up at Bruce through the edge of my vision, and Dick adjusts so I'm sideways against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. "The pit didn't bring me back," I admit, and Bruce's eyes narrow sharply.

"What  _did?_ " he asks, and I shake my head just a little bit, fighting the desire to close my eyes because I  _know_  what waits back there.

"I don't  _know_." I shudder, Bruce's hand smoothes over my back, and I choke on my next words. "I woke up and it… it was pitch black and I was so out of it and I—" The reality closes my throat shut for a second but I spit my words out as soon as I can get them through. "I was in that fucking  _coffin_ , you  _buried_ me." Dick inhales sharply, and I can see Bruce recoil just a little bit, in a tiny gesture that I doubt  _anyone_  has ever seen but the two of us and maybe Alfred. In disgust, and shock, and something that I swear to  _god_  looks like guilt, but  _couldn't_  be.

"You dug out," Bruce says quietly, I  _feel_  Dick shake against me, and I nod. "You should have  _told_  us, Jason," he reprimands, eyes narrowed again.

"I didn't know," I admit, clinging to Dick and  _refusing_  to let go. I don't  _care_  what Bruce wants or doesn't want, right now I just… I  _can't_. I don't know how hard I'll fall if Dick lets me go, or if Bruce  _makes_  him. "I dream about it, but I did all sorts of blind training with the heroes and this  _never_  happened. I didn't think—" I have to swallow. "I didn't think it  _could_."

Dick gives a sharp laugh over my head, that sounds a bit guilty and  _wild_. "That's what I'm  _good_  at," he hisses, leaning around me to bury his face and his lips against the back of my neck. " _Shit_ , little wing, I  _never_  meant to do that to you." The frantic, light presses of his lips against the bumps of my spine are like small apologies, all the 'sorrys' Dick will never,  _ever_  say.

This feels surreal.

Dick is a  _psychopath_ , he's a murdering  _bastard_ , and he's only ever treated me like a possession. This feels like more than that, more than just the worry of a kid trying to convince themselves that they'll never come that close to breaking their toy again, reminding themselves it was  _lucky_  that glue could put it back together again. This feels like a real apology, like he actually means it to me as a  _person_ and not just the next in his line of people he's nearly or completely broken. I… I don't understand.

"Scared to break me?" I ask, instead of any of the more dangerous questions on my tongue, and Dick's arms clamp down around me tightly enough to make me startle and give a gasp of pain. He  _immediately_  loosens his grip, turning almost  _careful_ , like I'm  _fragile_.

"Scared for someone  _else_  to," he corrects, breathing a little shaky against the back of my neck. "It's  _different_  if I do it, little wing, you  _know_  that. I'm  _good_  at what I do, I  _know_  how to break you without killing you. Those other  _idiots_ ," his voice is suddenly a sharp snarl, "don't. They'd break you too far, ruin all of it, I  _can't_  let them do that to you." He sounds protective, like an  _actual_  brother and not this messed up version of it, like he'd tear apart a thousand heroes or a thousand other criminals before he let one of them at me again. He probably would.

"You care?" I ask slowly, and Dick stiffens and then yanks back, shoving me away and for a second I'm fucking  _terrified_ that he's going to throw me to the ground for even  _daring_  to think it. That he's going to rip me apart for asking if he'd ever stoop to caring about me, another  _human_  and not the  _god_  to be worshipped that Bruce is.

Instead his hands clench on my shoulders — which hurts but I grit my teeth and bear it because at  _least_  he's still touching me — and he  _stares_  at me with an expression that looks  _incredulous_. "Of  _course_  I care," he says, clearly shocked, ignoring Bruce at my back until our not-father wraps his arms around my waist and drops his head down to rest on my shoulder.

"Oh,  _Jason_ ," Bruce says, with what almost sounds like a sad tinge to his voice. But it  _can't_  be. Bruce doesn't  _feel_ , he doesn't  _care_. We're tools to him and amusing playthings and that's  _it_. The fact that he knows how to manipulate the knowledge that  _I_  care doesn't mean any of his words actually mean anything. "Did you really think we  _didn't?_ "

I stare at Dick, my jaw working as he stares right back. "I'm a  _tool_  to you," I say to Bruce, "and a  _toy_  to you," I direct towards Dick. "Why would the two of you  _care?_  You don't  _care_  about anything."

Dick snarls and  _glares_  at me, and then he  _slaps_ me, hard enough to snap my head to the side from the impact. I stare in shock, my eyes wide. I don't think Dick has ever  _slapped_ me before. Clawed, beat, burnt, punched, kicked, and electrocuted, yes, but  _slapped?_ That's such a… a  _childish_  thing to do, and sure Dick has the possessive and whiplash tendencies of a child most of the time but he's so much more  _vicious_  than a  _slap_  can ever be. If he's upset he punches me, and he gets much nastier and inventive when he wants to really  _hurt_  me, but this… I…

"We're  _family_ , Jason," Dick spits. "We're  _Owls_ , you're my  _brother_. Of  _course_  I care you stupid little  _bastard_." They… Dick actually…? No, this is some fucked up game or some way to take advantage of the attack and twist me even  _more_  firmly around his fingers, like he  _needs_ to. Dick presses closer, taking my face between his hands and kissing me, and when I close my eyes on automatic the darkness isn't there waiting like I expect it to be. Dick's touch is  _possessive_ , firm, but  _gentle_  even if it reeks of restrained frustration. "You  _idiot_ ," he hisses against my mouth. "I'd  _never_  break you beyond fixing, little wing.  _Never_."

Coming from Dick that… that actually means a lot.

Bruce shifts at my back, his lips pressing into my neck and then bowing against my back. "Jason," he starts, and then pauses for several long moments before he continues. "If I didn't care I would have killed you the moment I heard you were working for Ra's al Ghul, by all rights I  _should_  have anyway. You know too many secrets, too much information, and I should have slit your throat, but I  _didn't_. I  _couldn't_."

It all clicks together in a  _horrible_  pattern that makes too much sense. Everything I did while I was gone, and they were pissed about the fact I slept with  _Talia_. That only made any kind of remote sense if they were precisely as possessive as they are, but Bruce is  _right_. By all rights I should have been dead a long time ago; he should have killed me the moment he knew I was alive, or dragged me back here. One of the two. Instead I stayed alive and free for  _years_  before now, and he ignored me even while I screwed with his shipments and undermined his reputation across the world.

That's…  _Christ_ , why didn't I see that before? I really should have.

I make some kind of little noise, a desperate thing, and reach forward for Dick. He draws closer, settling in against me, and I ease into the warm pressure of the two of them. Tears drip down my cheeks, and there's a hollow in my chest that feels empty and never-ending but there's a spark of warmth in it. Like someday, it might at least have a bottom, it might heal closed a bit.

"No  _more_  of this, Jason," Dick demands. "You don't ever hold anything back from me again, you understand me?" There's a shakiness to his voice, as his head presses down against my shoulder and mine burrows against his chest, that feels out of place on him but I recognize from other people. Hiding concern or  _fear_ behind anger and sharp retorts to not betray the weakness, that's what  _I_ do.

"I'm  _sorry_ ," I gasp, into Dick's collarbone, and he shakes his head against my shoulder and presses closer.

"You  _damn well_  should be," he snaps. "You don't  _get_  to break on my watch, little wing, not to anyone's hand but  _mine_." Bruce backs it up with a short acknowledging sound, and I nearly feel like choking as his arms clench around my waist and Dick pulls closer to me and the two of them are  _everywhere_  and I feel  _safe_  and  _surrounded_  in a way I… I don't think I've  _ever_  felt. Maybe in the early morning moments after patrol, when we would all end up in the same bed and I was curled between the two of them, too exhausted to leave for somewhere else, but that was rare and usually more likely to end with all of us trudging back to our own rooms, not a pile in the same bed. I had school, Dick had wherever the  _fuck_  he went, and Bruce had meetings earlier than any of us wanted to think about.

The chance that we were all going to end up in the same place, and not mind that we'd get woken up repeatedly by others, was  _unlikely_. I think it happened maybe… three or four times, if that? It only ever felt that way if there wasn't sex involved either, if it was just the three of us together to share warmth and the comfort of another human body, and not because at least one of us wanted to fuck the other two.

This… this feels like those times. I'm even about as injured and bruised as was usually the case.

"Can this just stop here?" I ask quietly, between the two of them, and I can feel both of them shift, probably trading a glance over my bowed head. "Please?" I add, for good measure and right now I don't give a fuck that I'm basically pleading for  _nothing_  to happen.

"What do you mean, Jason?" Bruce asks, and I feel Dick's head tilt into my skin in what I'm pretty sure is an angle so he can hear me better.

I swallow and try thinking my words through before I say them, but I don't move. I don't want  _any_  of this to move, not ever. "Can this just stop?" I repeat. "Can we just take this and sleep and not  _deal_  with the rest of it right now, please? Whatever you want to do to me tomorrow is… it's fine, but for right now can we just—" Dick cuts me off with a press of fingers to my lips, and I get the feeling they're trading glances over my head again. I close my eyes cautiously — expecting the panic-inducing dark and thanking  _god_  when it doesn't show up and it's just regular black behind my eyelids — and wait for the two of them to finish.

Finally I can feel Dick nod, and he pulls back from me a little, reaching down and lifting my head as I open my eyes to look at him. "We're  _done_ ," he tells me, mouth flatter than I've seen it in a long time, brilliantly blue eyes serious and only just barely narrowed. "We're  _done_ , little wing, promise."

"It doesn't matter what you've done," Bruce adds, his arms pulling back from my waist a little bit. "From tomorrow on, we're even, and you can do whatever it is that you want to without our interference." The thought of what I came to Gotham to do rises, but I shove it away  _sharply_. I  _meant_  what I said, I don't want to have to think about  _any_  of this. Not right now, not when I feel so…

Cracked.

Dick folds up, pulling me and Bruce to standing with him, and I make a sharp keening noise and fold back onto Bruce, letting my weight fall nearly  _completely_  onto him. I'd forgotten how much Dick  _hurt_  me, before this happened. My torso protests being straight  _violently_ , and the parts of my back pressed against Bruce ache and  _burn_  at the pressure. My left shoulder, in particular,  _screams_  at me. I guess it didn't appreciate all of my really strong struggling while I couldn't really feel it behind everything else.

Bruce takes my weight without complaint, actually lifting me into his arms without skipping a beat and moving towards the bed with me curled against his chest. No less painful of a position, but at least I don't have to support my own weight this way. It's not quite right — I got almost as big as Bruce a while ago, and even though he  _can_  lift me into his arms without a problem it's not exactly perfect — but it doesn't have to be. Dick follows, one hand on my calf and his body pressed tight to Bruce's side as our not-father carries me to the bed.

Dick moves to pull the covers and thick comforter aside before we get there, and Bruce slides me inside them like they planned all this from the beginning. I guess, in a way, this is what they've always been good at. Taking me places, making sure the way is clear beforehand, and making sure that I don't have the chance to struggle. Working as a team. Dick slips in beside me, on the other side of the bed, as Bruce pulls everything back over the top of me. My not-brother's skin presses warm to mine, and he drags me to his chest and against him without any real care for my injuries, all the aches and burning stripes carved into me  _by_  him. Bruce leans over us both, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead and then I think, briefly, to Dick's mouth.

"I have a few more things to settle first," he tells us, his hand sliding through my hair. "I shouldn't be more than a few minutes." Dick nods, still holding me tight to him, and I can very faintly hear Bruce move away from the two of us. I close my eyes against Dick's chest, letting myself sink into the no longer familiar feeling of another warm body curled in and around me while I sleep.

There was a time I wouldn't have been able to sleep without either Dick or Bruce around me, or at least not sleep  _well_ , but I grew out of that after the pit. I don't know how long I spent in Gotham after I dug my way out of my own grave, collapsed in a coma and unidentified because some  _idiot_  nurse or doctor didn't recognize me as Jason  _Wayne_ , but after Talia dumped me in the pit and brought my mind back — at least most of it — I didn't really  _sleep_  for weeks. It took me a long time to adjust to the idea that there wasn't going to be anyone there when I woke up, and none of the heroes were going to be sleeping next to the criminal pet they'd brought in. Not that I would have wanted  _them_  to.

I wanted Dick, I wanted Bruce. I wanted my  _family_. I wanted to go to sleep, wake up, and have it all be a terrible dream. I  _still_ want that.

The light clicks off, and somehow, with Dick's arms wrapped around me and his steady heartbeat under my ear, I manage not to panic. It's a close thing, and Dick must feel the hitch to my breathing and the speed of  _my_  heart because he lifts his head.

"Bruce," he calls, "open the curtains."

He holds me until there's the rattling and sliding fabric sounds of a curtain, and then light falls over my close eyelids. It eases me a little, and I open my eyes to moonlight, shining down in through the now open windows. Bruce's silhouette is standing in front of one of them, and then slips away into the blackness of the rest of the room. I could probably track him, but I choose not to. I choose to bury my head a little further into Dick's chest and just breathe, my pulse slowing down and the adrenaline finally draining out of my system,. Dick's hand strokes through my hair, down my back, and the pain almost feels more like home than all the rest of it.

Dick has  _always_  hurt me, that's never changed. The only difference is now I know he might actually care and give a damn underneath all of that. I'm pretty sure he does. I think?

This changes  _everything_.

But not right  _now_. Right now I'm going to let the nightmares slip away from my head and bury them under Dick's touch and the warm rush of his breath next to my ear and on top of my head. Right  _now_ , nothing else matters.

It's the easiest I've gotten to sleep in  _years_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter 2! So, I finished chapter 4, but I also totally forgot that there was a small extra piece that I wanted to include in this. So this is actually going to be 5 chapters, not 4. I know, big shock/disappointment, right? XD Anyway, I messed with how Jason died in this verse, because I didn't want to just use the Jokester. Also, you'll see mentions of 'Nightingale', which some of you may know is my role-swapped name for Dick/Nightwing. Enjoy!

I wake up alone, my arms stretching and hands reaching for warmth and bodies that aren't there. I stir, blinking my eyes open and squinting for a little bit at the light that burns into them.

Too bright, too quickly.

The chill of morning air is cold against my back, where I can feel the comforter hooked over my waist but not covering anything above that, but not cold enough that I reach for the blankets and tug them back over me. Cool, chilly, but not the kind of cold that demands I fix it immediately or even, really, ever. The kind of cold that's better with others, chased away by a warm body, but doesn't  _have_  to be.

I try blinking awake again, and this time it works. The light evens out so I can see without having to squint, and my gaze slips over the pillow curled under my head to the one next to it, and the folded piece of paper lying on top if it. I reach for it with my right hand, bringing it closer and unfolding it to read it without lifting my head.

It's Bruce's neat cursive, and says, in short terms, that he's out at a meeting and Dick is off to Bludhaven for some kind of hero business that happened early this morning. I was pretty much dead to the world, so they didn't wake me. I drop the piece of paper and start to push up, and then immediately collapse again as my body reminds me that last night was  _bad_  and I should  _not_  be moving.

Muscles ache and cramp, and the curve of my back sets what  _must_  be bruises screaming at me to  _stop_  moving. Because I'm a stubborn  _idiot_ , I grit my teeth and shove the warnings away. I push up on my right arm, getting to sitting with only a little bit of panting, and the reminder that not only did Dick beat the hell out of me, but we had an actual  _fight_  before that, too. A glance down shows me dark patterns of bruising on both sides of my ribs, with lighter bruises scattered over the front of me from various impact points with the walls or streets of Gotham. There are a few scabbing scrapes, but nothing too bad. I make about a single, two second attempt to twist over my shoulder and get a look at my back before deciding that it's a  _bad_  idea.

The effort sets me panting again, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, before I manage to do anything more than breathe. My injured shoulder, when I raise my right hand up to touch it, feels a little swollen to the touch, and hot, but a  _very_ careful roll of it only makes me grit my teeth a little bit. It still doesn't feel like torn muscle, though I think it might actually be a good idea to put my arm in a sling to keep it from  _becoming_  that, as much as I hate the idea of immobilizing  _any_  part of myself.

I get off the bed with what actually is fairly minimal pain, and my legs hold my weight pretty well. It's my torso that's fucked up, the bottom half of me is pretty much fine. A few scrapes, a few stinging points, but nothing even remotely as bad as the injuries to my upper half.

I take a glance around — usually, clothes tend to just  _appear_ in the manor — but don't find my jacket or my jeans anywhere. I doubt they're still in the bathroom, but I'll take a look before I start pillaging Bruce's things.

Getting over to the bathroom is a study in exactly how to walk with a back that can't bend  _or_  keep straight without being  _agonizing_ , but I  _know_  pain like the back of my hand, and I control it without too much trouble. I slip inside the bathroom, taking a look around at the totally empty room and biting back a sigh. Yeah, thought so.

Somehow, Alfred manages to be even more of a ninja than the actual  _ninjas_ of the house, and slip in and around us to clean up without us ever knowing he's passed by. Of course, it's also possible that Bruce or Dick took my clothes out to him.

I hope my jacket's alright.

I take care of morning business before leaving the bathroom, and pause on my way out to stand in front of the counter and the mirror above it. I avoid looking at my face — the sight of my eyes, so much  _greener_  than they should be, never fails to unnerve me — but do take a look at my back.

It's about as fucked up as it feels. There are long stripes of dark bruising, and red lines that I'm pretty sure are scratches, and there's very little of my actual skin tone in there any more. For any normal person, it would be one hell of a trip to the hospital. Good thing I know how to take pain. My neck is also quite a mess, though that's because it's littered with small, dark hickies — because Dick can't keep his teeth to himself,  _ever_  — and the very faint impression of a hand over my throat.

Well, I guess it's a good thing I'm legally dead. No need to go out in public, which means I don't have to worry about what I look like to anyone else. Not yet, anyway. That will come later.

My jaw tightens at the thought of my plans.

I  _did_ come back to Gotham for a reason. I'm not crazy, and this whole weird reunion thing was seriously not my intention. I could have gone my whole life — even if it would have  _sucked_ — without ever seeing the rest of my family again. I knew when I came back that they would hunt me down, but if by some miracle they hadn't I wouldn't have tried to find them. I would have let matters be since, after all, I have a job to do here.

Mercenary work takes you all over the place, at the whim of anyone willing to pay you enough for your talents — with my skills, that's a  _lot_  of money — and your time. I don't really  _need_  the money, but eventually I wanted to be able to exist off my own power and not just crash at small apartments and Ra's' various safe houses. I wanted to be able to say that I really was independent. Maybe, I'm not really sure anymore, I still do. I don't  _know_  if I'll stay here.

Bruce and Dick gave me permission to go wherever I wanted to, even if that means leaving Gotham again. I  _can_ leave if I want to, I don't have to stick around and I don't have to work for or with Bruce and Dick again. I don't  _have_  to, and that's probably the only reason I'm considering it.

Well, we'll see how this turns out and  _then_  decide. After all, if I'm about to majorly piss off Bruce I probably can't stick around after that without being kind of suicidal or willing to endure a lot of pain. Right now, neither of those options look too great. But I don't  _know_  how Bruce will react and — to be totally, painfully honest — I don't know if Bruce  _knew_  why I was here the second I stepped inside the city limits of Gotham or not. It wouldn't surprise me at all if he did, in fact I'd almost be more surprised if he  _didn't_ know.

I have to go through with things now, though. I'm a mercenary, and I took a job. I have a reputation to uphold.  _Everyone_  knows that Red Hood gets his  _fucking_  job done, no matter what it is, and that he's not to be  _messed_  with. If I lose one job or bail out on it, even if I give the payment back, then I have to do the next job faster and  _better_  than all the others to stabilize things again. Right now I have the title to my name of  _never_  having failed, I'd like to keep it.

Even if that means giving up all of… this. Whatever  _this_  is.

I head out of the bathroom, crossing Bruce's room to his dresser and pulling open a few of the drawers. I steal a pair of black boxers — Bruce's hips and mine are about the same size, even if he's a little taller and his chest is bigger — and a plain black t-shirt that hangs a little loose on my frame but that's  _good_. The less pressure on my bruises the better.

I debate trying to find pants as well before giving the idea up. Bruce's legs are longer by a few inches — and he  _only_  has clothes that fit him  _exactly_  — and Dick is a fair bit thinner than I am and shorter too. None of their clothes would fit me right and I don't want to try on a dozen things before finding something that  _might_ work well enough. I'd rather just wander around in boxers. It's not like anyone in this manor — Alfred included — hasn't seen me in less clothing and worse condition.

I head for the door out of Bruce's room, and take a deep breath as I get into the rest of the manor.

This all feels so  _familiar_  and so… like home. This feels like coming home. Not even the pain I'm in or the borrowed clothes — actually, both of those things are pretty much normal feeling — makes it feel any less familiar and safe.

The route to the kitchen is a familiar one, and my feet follow it without me even thinking about where I'm trying to go. I'm not really  _going_  anywhere specific, to be honest. Alfred is usually in the kitchen, if he's not cleaning some obscure corner of the manor or down in the Roost trying to stitch one of us back together and giving us that 'what would you do without me' look, but really, he could be anywhere.

I suppose food would be a good thing. The last time I ate was before I even got into Gotham, and it wasn't much. I didn't want anything but enough to keep me going in my stomach when I went up against my family. At the time, I thought it was going to be Bruce, not Dick. I honestly don't know how long I've been asleep, but I'd guess by the way the light falls it's somewhere around seven or eight AM. I probably didn't sleep much longer after the two of them left, especially not since the light was coming down at that kind of an angle on me.

Food would probably be a good idea, or at least something to keep me going a little longer. Maybe something to drink too, preferably alcohol if I can find where Alfred's stashed it this week. We're all adults, even if technically I'm not actually twenty-one yet, but Alfred tends to treat us like we're children, and all alcohol in the house gets hidden so he can pull it out for important occasions and  _nothing_  else. At one point, Dick and I made a game of who could find where it was first. Of course that got stopped pretty much immediately under both the  _look_  we got from Alfred and, more importantly, Bruce quietly finding it instantaneously and beating us both even though he wasn't even  _playing_. We usually left it alone after that. Officially.

It still swapped around a fair amount, mostly because Bruce tends to go for alcohol even when he doesn't actually need it. Well 'need' is a strong word anyway. I don't think anyone 'needs' alcohol, but it can make things easier a lot of the time.

Like now. I could use a drink right now to gear myself for what I'm about to do. I mean, I  _can't_  do what I have planned until I get my clothes back and —  _way_  more serious — all of my weapons and tools, which were with or  _hidden_  in my clothes, so it's not like I can go and do it right now. But it would be nice to have the liquid fire curdling in my stomach to try and make me not think about it so much or hard.

There's no  _point_ in thinking about it. I said I would do it, so I will. Period. End of discussion.

The kitchen is empty, and I peer through the other doors leading out of it — there are three, one leading to a formal dining room, one to the living room we  _usually_  ate in, and one back out into the corridors to our rooms — to take a quick glance and see if Alfred is anywhere nearby. He isn't. I bend to the fridge first, taking a look at what's inside it — and realizing that it was an  _awful_  idea to crouch down because getting back up is going to be hell — and considering my options. I could  _make_  something pretty easily with what's in here. Eggs or, something. Yeah, I can do eggs.

I reach in and retrieve the carton, reaching up and setting it on the counter before I take a steadying breath and grab the counter with both hands,  _pulling_  myself up. It burns, and I remember that my left arm isn't much good right now a little too late, but I manage to get back to my feet. From there I take a moment to settle myself, leaning against the counter, before sweeping my gaze around the room and trying to recall exactly where Alfred stored all of his tools, utensils, and pans without needing to open all the cabinets. I  _think_  I remember.

I get to work, collecting a frying pan, butter from inside the fridge, and a spatula from one of the drawers just to the left of the sink. I manage to only clip myself once on the smaller wooden table and two chairs inside the kitchen. I've got it all collected and together before that long, and I take a glance over things before setting up the frying pan on the oven.

"Master Jason," a smooth voice says, and I flinch, turning too sharply and then I'm all but collapsed against the counter, muscles and bruises screaming in shocked protest that I would even  _try_ doing something vaguely that physically intensive. There's a disapproving click of a tongue, and the very different click of faintly heeled shoes on hardwood floors as they approach.

"I'm fine," I say automatically, swallowing and trying not to show that I'm not sure I can straighten up.

A hand brushes against my low back, unceremoniously hooking the edge of my borrowed shirt and pulling it up my back. Alfred gives a small sigh, pulling the shirt a little further up and away from my skin to look at my variety of injuries. "I have seen your definition of 'fine' before, Master Jason," Alfred reminds me, releasing the shirt to fall back down.

I try and push up off the counter and then almost immediately give up when my ribs start to feel a bit like knives and my back refuses to straighten out. Yeah, I'm not going anywhere. "It could be worse," I say instead, resting my head on my right arm where I'm braced against the marbled counter.

"To be fair, Master Jason," and there's a faintly disappointed edge to Alfred's voice that makes me cringe a lot more obviously than even  _Bruce_ can, "you've caused Master Bruce quite a bit of frustration with your activities while you've been gone, considering how you've been opposing him. I am rather of the opinion that you deserve this and more."

He slips into the space between me and the counter and drags my relatively uninjured arm over his shoulders, pulling me off the counter. He pretty much carries me to one of the kitchen chairs, and I bite my tongue and don't comment when they way he drops me into it is a lot rougher than I remember him usually being. He's really not happy with me, it's obvious.  _His_ displeasure is what really grates against my senses. Bruce and Dick's outright aggression and manipulation is easier for me to deal with than Alfred's distant,  _British_  anger.

"I know," I say, leaning forward across the table because leaning  _back_ against the chair's wood is going to be even worse. "Sorry, Alfred." I cushion my head against my right arm but leave my left arm lying on my lap because all of last night pretty much wrecked it and I don't want to do anything more with it than I have to.

He makes an acknowledging but noncommittal noise, and then there's a long pause and stretch of silence before he asks, "You weren't attempting to make yourself breakfast, were you, Master Jason?"

Oh.  _Fuck_. I totally forgot about the golden rule of the Wayne manor. Don't  _touch_ anything in the kitchen except prepackaged snacks or drinks unless Alfred is sick or  _dying_  and you  _must_ eat. Even then, it's safer and a better idea to order takeout from somewhere than risk offending Alfred in  _his_  domain. The kitchen is Alfred's kingdom; not even  _Bruce_ dares crossing him in here. You don't  _fuck_ with the people that make your food.

" _Sorry_ , Alfred," I repeat, raising my head and flinching away from his arched eyebrow and flatly  _unamused_ look. "Habits; I'll clean it up."

" _Sit_ ," he demands as I start trying to push myself up. "Even if you were fully capable of getting  _up_  in that state,  _sir_ , you wouldn't be capable of cleaning to my specifications. Stay down, I'll make you something."

"Thank you," I say quietly, cringing down from the look he's still giving me until he turns away and starts working in the kitchen.  _Then_ I dare to close my eyes and lay my head back down.

I don't know if I fall asleep for a minute or if Alfred is  _magic_ — both are totally viable options — but the click of a cup hitting the table in front of my face startles my eyes back open after what only feels like seconds.

"It's warm, Master Jason," Alfred says, as an aroma hits my nose that feels a little bit like a punch to the gut. Tea.  _My_ black tea. My throat feels a little tight, and I manage to push up and off the table even though it hurts to look down into the cup. The nearly black liquid — not steaming but only warm, because I was never patient enough to wait for a drink to cool and burned my tongue more times than I can remember — is only shaken up by the faint granules of sugar I can see, and Alfred always gave me these  _looks_ when I wanted that much sugar but he  _always_ did it anyway. I reach for it like it's going to disappear, and wrap both hands around the warm cup. It  _stays_.

"I was  _dead_ ," I say, not looking up at him. "Why do you still  _have_ this?"

Alfred's touch is warm against my right shoulder, careful but firm enough for it to feel steady. "You've been alive a long time," he reminds me, "and I always knew you'd come home when you were ready, Jason. This is where you belong, and it will always be a home to you no matter  _what_ you choose to do." He reaches past me and sets down two pills beside my hands. "Swallow these."

They must be something Bruce made here, because they're in those shiny plastic containers meant to dissolve in a stomach, with the powder inside, but there's no brand names printed and no trademark colors I could use to identify what they are. "Are you trying to tranq me?" I ask, partly joking, and his hand squeezes down on my shoulder for a moment.

"They're just painkillers, Master Jason, they're simply homemade since the three of you have developed quite the resistance to normal types. They were made after your death." He releases me, stepping away with the same clicking of heels — how the  _hell_ did he ever get around us without us noticing him, with  _those_ shoes? — and circling around the table to my collection of things on the counter. "Swallow them, drink your tea, I'll make you food, and then we will see about tending to your injuries. Deal?"

"They're not that bad," I protest, and Alfred turns and  _looks_ at me. One eyebrow just faintly arched, his face otherwise a totally flat mask of imperious  _Britishness_. Daring me to try arguing with him and I fold about as easily as if someone punched me in the solar plexus. "Deal," I agree. He gives a slow nod, and pointedly flicks his gaze down at the cup in my hands and the pills.

I take the pills first, throwing them into my mouth and swallowing them down dry, which is a skill I learned a long time ago. Easier to swallow all kinds of things on patrols if you don't have to wait around for some kind of liquid or something to help you swallow pills. It was  _way_  easier just to figure out the kind of mental process needed to just force it down your throat without chewing. It wasn't that hard, in the scope of things. It's all about relativity.

I go for the tea next, closing my eyes and taking sips as I hold it, basically, right under my nose. I know it isn't right, but it feels like it sinks into my bones and shakes me awake, dragging me into awareness no matter how much my mind and body don't really  _want_  to be awake while I'm in this much pain. Placebo effects are fun. Black tea doesn't have enough caffeine to actually affect me, not for a  _long_  time and especially not after the pit, but my body is so  _used_  to waking up from a cup of this in the mornings that it manufactures the chemicals and creates the effect anyway, even though there's no reason for it.

I know too much about this shit for my own good, and my own sanity. Good thing I really never bothered with calling myself sane to begin with. 'Not pit-mad' is a lot different than actually daring to call myself 'sane'. That's a whole other ballgame right there, and I'm pretty damn certain that nobody who  _chooses_  to run around in a mask and put themselves in harm's way on purpose is ever going to win an award for being sane. That's a pretty  _crazy_  thing to do, in general.

I swallow down the last mouthful of the tea, so soaked in sugar granules that hadn't quite melted that my tongue actually recoils from it for a moment. It's  _perfect_. I set the cup down, and Alfred replaces it with a plate of what looks like plain eggs without missing a beat, taking my cup to the sink.

"Eat," he commands. "It's simple, I'm unaware of what you might have had while you've been gone."

With Ra's it was a lot of fancy crap that never seemed to measure up to what other people wanted me to think of it, and by myself…? Whatever I could cook easily, or in a hurry, or that didn't require any kind of a brain to do properly. My life as a solitary mercenary wasn't really loaded with glamour or any other  _people_  to do any of this for me. The eggs taste much better than anything I've ever cooked, I can almost guarantee, and I'm  _home_  so of course all of it tastes better than it would anywhere else. This is  _home_.

It only hits me when I take the last bite how  _hungry_  I was, and how much energy all of last night took out of me. The bruises and the injuries from our fight aside, I learned a lot more last night than I'm really sure I wanted to know, and if all of it is true — and I think it  _is_  — I'm not sure what this means for what happens next. If this isn't just blind, one-sided loyalty, and I have something with Dick and Bruce that actually matters, I'll…

I don't know, and I'm not going to think about it. I told myself I  _wouldn't_. Finish the job, get it done and  _then_  worry about what happens next. Wait for all the facts to come in.

I can be patient when I need to.

"Thanks, Alfred," I say as he clears my plate from in front of me, watching his back as he stands in front of the sink. Somehow, despite taking care of this place, and all of us, and doing all this work he  _still_  manages to be perfectly put together and composed  _all the time._  I honestly have no idea how he does it, and I kind of wish I knew because it seems like a really handy talent to have.

He sets the plate aside to dry, and wipes his hands off on the hand towel hanging on the wall to the left of the sink before turning back to me. "Alright, Master Jason. Up with you, let's get you into a bed and have a look at you."

I wince, and he gives me another of his  _looks_. "I'll go  _mad_  in a bed, Alfred, you know that. Can't we just do it here?" Alfred has been witness to my training enough to know that when I end up bedridden for  _any_  reason, I turn into what  _kind_  people refer to as a monster. I can't help it. I get bored in a bed, and my version of bored usually means fucking with the people around me.

Bruce and Dick take it much better. Well, sort of.

Bruce dodges everything about it, and ends up down in the Roost no matter how you try and keep him in a bed, and Dick pretty much charms his way into and out of everything he wants, including not being in a bed anymore. Even Alfred isn't totally immune to it.

Alfred scans me, briefly. "Do you have any injuries below your torso?" he asks, and I shake my head.

"Just scrapes, nothing even remotely serious."

"Then very well." He leans down, opening the cupboard directly below the sink and retrieving what looks like a normal first aid kit; probably packed full of a bunch of things that actually affect people with crazy high tolerances like us Owls. "Remove that borrowed shirt," he demands, and I do it. I pull it up and over my head with just my right hand, easing it over my left shoulder and down the arm to get it off me. I set it on the table, as Alfred sets the kit in front of me, and stay very still as he starts pulling a few basic things from within the kit. "Outline your known injuries," he requests, and I nod.

"There's my back" I start, with a snort. "Looks like just bruising, skin and muscle, with maybe a welt or two. Bruised ribs on both sides. Left shoulder got wrenched, pretty sure nothing's torn or broken but it's pretty painful. The rest is just scrapes and smaller cuts."

Alfred nods and reaches into the kit. I force myself to close my eyes, not watching what he's doing. I  _trust_  Alfred in a way that I don't trust most people, and I don't have to watch him to know he's going to take care of me. There are easier ways for Bruce to kill me than setting Alfred on me —  _lots_  of them — and he wouldn't do that anyway. Bruce generally keeps Alfred out of things unless there's no other option.

Also, Alfred has patched me up more times than I could count, and that doesn't include what he's done for Bruce, and Dick, and occasionally himself. He knows what he's doing, I don't have to watch to make sure. I let him work on me, and when he finally announces he's done I flick my eyes back open and watch him put the kit to the side, not away yet. He probably wants to refill the supplies and make sure it's packed back up before he puts it away again. Can't be too careful to have enough medical supplies in this house, no matter where you are.

Really, apart from the bandaging of a few of the nastier scrapes on my skin, there's not much Alfred could do anyway. There's nothing for bruised ribs but to wait them out, the same with the actual bruises on and in my back, though he did prod and test my shoulder with some vaguely distasteful noises.

Alfred turns back to me, and I look up at him. "It would be best to put your left arm in a harness for now," he says, and I bite my tongue not to sigh, "to prevent any further damage to the muscle."

"Yeah," I say grudgingly, "I know. Alright."

I really don't  _like_  it, but I'll do it. I like being able to use both arms and not being  _injured_  a lot better. I can deal with a sling for a while, that's fine. I've dealt with casts and slings before after all, and it's not so much a case of not being able to move the limb as it is frustration at not being able to really do my job. Plus, I'll be stuck here. With my left arm in a sling it will be a lot harder for me to try and ride my bike anywhere, though not impossible, which reminds me—

I actually don't know where my bike ended up. I know it was on a street in Gotham before Dick ambushed me, and he chased me on  _his_  bike for a while, but once we were fighting on rooftops and leaping from building to building on foot, I lost track of it. I've got no  _idea_  if it's still wherever I left it when we transitioned, or if Dick retrieved it, or if some lucky bastard in Gotham picked up a new bike. It's not like they could actually activate and use it, but they could probably transport it and try taking it apart.

I kind of hope it's that last one. I could use somebody to  _hit_.

"I don't have any out here," he says with another arch of his eyebrow. "Come on, Master Jason, back to Master Bruce's room with you. I'll retrieve a harness, as well as your clothes and weapons."

 _That's_  about as relaxing a statement as I think I've heard in a long time. "Thanks," I say, instead of voicing the gleeful little kid running circles around the inside of my head.  _Yes_.  _Weapons_.

I never feel at home  _anywhere_  unless I've got at least a knife and a gun, and I prefer being at home in my own clothes and armor and having access to all the tools and gadgetry hidden inside it. It makes me feel safer to have so many things at my fingertips that I could use as weapons, or to get into or out of wherever or whatever I need to. It's that simple, really. Even being at the manor without my weapons or my jacket makes me feel… out of place a bit,  _unsettled_. It'll be good to have all of it back.

I get to my feet without Alfred's help — the painkillers kicking in, must be, because I definitely took Alfred's medical attention better than I should have too — and follow him as he leads the way out of the kitchen and back towards Bruce's room. He doesn't glance back to see if I need help — which since I  _don't_  is another good feeling — and when we reach Bruce's room he pushes open the door and steps to the side, inviting me in first.

"Sit down, Master Jason," he commands in the form of a polite request, "I should be back within a few minutes."

I step inside, and the door clicks shut behind me. As ordered, I sit down on one of the chairs in the room. Soft, comfortable, but since my tea woke me up I'm really not nearly as tired anymore so there's no danger of me falling asleep.

Now that it's light, and I'm in a state of mind that isn't still half in a panic attack, I know what Bruce and Dick had me chained to as well. Not far from the bed, nearly against the wall but not quite, is a chair that's legitimately bolted to the floor. No arms, with dark wood for legs and back and a dark blue cushion for a seat. There might be some nail marks in the front edge of it now, but I'm not going to get up and check. I don't really want to know.

It only really feels like seconds — because Alfred  _is_  magical, I swear to god — before the door is opening again, and Alfred comes in with what I recognize as a black sling over one arm, and a collection of clothes as well as a small bag — paper, not cloth or plastic — slung over the other, the bag held in his hand. I resist the urge to stand, especially after Alfred gives me a warning look, and just lean forward a little bit as he clicks the door shut and comes towards me.

"Here are your clothes, Master Jason," he says easily, depositing the collection of clothes — which  _includes_  my leather jacket — over my lap. "If you would get dressed, with the exception of your jacket, please." Right, slings in jackets, not a good idea. I'll have to do that whole 'one jacket sleeve empty' until this heals. Not looking forward to that.

He sets the bag down at my feet, the sling over one arm of the chair I'm sitting in, and after a last look takes a few steps away and turns his back. As if Alfred hasn't seen me naked a  _ton_  of times. After Bruce and Dick, while bandaging or stitching me up, or just because sometimes it's kinda hard to stand after a patrol and Alfred's a bit of a master at dragging us into showers so we don't ruin his bed sheets or all his cleaning.

I grab the collection of clothes and flip its order — first thing to get put on on top, instead of my jacket on top — then stand up out of the chair. I set the pile back down on the chair's seat and then shimmy my way out of Bruce's boxers, letting them drop to the floor before I reach for my own. They go on easily, as do my socks — I only almost topple over once trying to balance — and I tug my jeans on over them. Alfred must have replaced my shirt, because there's a fresh, clean, and decidedly  _not_  ripped one in the pile, and I tug that on too after I slip on the armoring underneath it. I drag my belt on through the loops of my jeans, pull my boots on and lace them up, and turn my attention to the bag.

Yep,  _all_  my weapons. I strap my knife and its sheath around my left thigh, tuck the gun into its holster on the opposite thigh, and crack my knuckles briefly before getting back to tucking all my various tiny tools back into where they should be. Alfred's pretty damn good at finding where we stash things — like, there's not a single one of my tools left in my clothes, except what must be in my jacket since none of those are in the bag — so it takes me a while to put everything back where it should be before I'm actually stocked again. It feels good to be armed again.

"Alright, I'm all good," I tell him, turning back around and picking the sling up off the chair. Fucking thing.

Alfred turns and I toss it to him; he snags it out of the air surprisingly well. Okay, not surprisingly. I shouldn't be surprised by  _anything_  Alfred can do, anymore. I  _really_ shouldn't. Former MI-6, after all. He's  _not_  just some old helpless guy, he's a badass in his own right.  _He's_  the guy who trained Bruce to begin with, after all, before Bruce went off around the world to pick up everything he possibly could about how to kill someone and all the skills around it.

I've read the files.

He approaches me, and I resist the urge to hold my arm out like he's going to be checking my pulse or something. I only grimace a little as he secures it around my arm, and I duck my head so he can loop it around the back of my neck to hold it up. I hate the feeling, but it does work. Alfred checks the straps a second time, then leans over and retrieves my jacket, helping me pull it over my right arm and hook it over my left shoulder. I take a second to pat the jacket down and make sure all of my other weapons and tools are still just where they should be.

"You should consider replacing that jacket," Alfred tells me, with a mildly disapproving look, as he steps back, and I shake my head in instant reaction.

"No way, Alfred." He raises an eyebrow, and I shrug with my good shoulder, raising my hand to tug the other side a little more securely around my side. "This is  _mine_. Wouldn't be the same if Wayne money bought me another."

Alfred almost seems to soften for a second, and then he flicks his eyes upwards in the 'god help me' look and gives a small sigh. "Very well, Master Jason. I maintain that you should rest, but as we are both aware I cannot enforce it particularly well I will simply ask that you attempt not to injure yourself any further.  _Or_ ," and he gives me a slightly narrow-eyed, warning expression, "that you attempt picking a fight with anyone who  _will_."

I grin, the warmth in my chest rising full force. Yeah, Alfred's always known me best. "No promises," I say, instead of agreeing, "but I guess I'll try." He nods and heads for the door, and I follow him. "Hey, do you know where Bruce and Dick are?" I ask. It's a dumb question, Alfred  _always_  knows where all of us are at any given point, but it's better than flat out asking where they are, which is what I want to know.

"Master Richard," because Alfred could never say 'Master Dick' without getting that faintly offended look on his face, "is on business in Bludhaven, some minor hero attempting to disrupt Owl business there. Master Bruce is at Wayne Enterprises, conducting a few business meetings to settle a merger of a smaller corporation. Master Richard should be back within the day, though it may stretch until tomorrow, whereas Master Bruce will be back in a few hours, as soon as his dealings are concluded."

"Thanks, Alfred," I say, and he lets me out the door, giving me a vaguely shooing gesture as I turn to see why he's not following. Right, boxers on the floor, unmade bed, it's like one of Alfred's nightmares in there. I head down the corridor, towards the entrance to the Roost, and pause in front of the section of wall — seriously, if you didn't know this was an entrance you'd  _never_ figure it out — leading in.

Am I still in the systems? I mean, I  _died_ , and then I spent years very firmly not coming back to Gotham, so there's really no reason why my face and fingerprints would still be in the manor's security systems. Well, no way to know but to check, I suppose.

I flip the painting in the wall beside it away from lying flat, having to disengage a security hook on the nearest side to get it to come open, and step in front of it. I put my bare fingertips onto the blue panel inside it, and wait while it flashes at me, shines a light across my face and into my eyes that I ignore with the ease of practice, and eventually flashes a light green. The door to the Roost slips open soundlessly, and I swallow back a lump in my throat.

Bruce put me back in the system.

He would never have left me in there after I died, too much of a security risk and besides, my face isn't the same as it was then. So he had to have updated everything to match what I look like now and put me  _back_  in at some point after I came back to life. Sometime recently. I actually wouldn't be surprised if he did it the second I came back to Gotham.

I swing the picture shut and rehook the security connection before heading inside the door — it closes behind me with only the faintest hiss and click audible from this side — and I head down the flight of stairs. With the painkillers in my blood, it's not so bad. It's not like my legs are fucked up, anyway, just my back. Walking down stairs only requires a little bit of back strength and not nearly enough to make me curl over in pain or give up. I could probably do it just fine even if Alfred hadn't given me some kind of awesome painkiller concoction.

I get to the bottom, taking a brief glance around and smiling where no one can see me. There are a few new things — Bruce takes trophies from the heroes he beats, sometimes, if they're particularly impressive or just if Dick really likes it (that's how we ended up with the giant dinosaur statue) — but for the most part it's just how I remember. There's really not much renovation you can do with a giant underground cave system I guess, you're pretty much stuck with the water pools at the bottom and the system of metal stairs and platforms that Bruce has built in here. Besides, why would he redesign it unless somehow, someone got in here and destroyed things?

 _I_  could have done that, sure, and maybe Ra's if he had a reason to — which he doesn't, yet — but anyone else? Nah, not likely.

Something catches my eye and I approach it, slowly moving closer to the glass case placed pretty prominently in the center of the room, about fifty feet in each direction between the cars and the giant computer that we unofficially called 'the Owl computer'. I circle to see it from the right angle, and my throat tightens a bit. It's the black and red suit of Talon,  _mine_  specifically. Dick's costume and mine were a little different as Talon. Not much, but enough to tell us apart if you were in the know or were just a little better at picking out details. This one is  _mine_.

There's a plaque in front of it, at the very bottom, that I slowly lower my gaze to read. It isn't much, but it just has my name — Jason Todd — and the dates of my birth and my death. I swallow.

This is… This is  _not_  what I was expecting to find, ever. This is something dangerously close to  _proof_  that Bruce and Dick actually gave a damn about me, and actually were affected when I died. I don't know why it's still here, it's not like I'm dead anymore and I haven't exactly been real loyal or kind to the two of them, but I'm not sure I want to know, either. That way lies some serious emotional danger and maybe a bit of a mental breakdown. I can't afford that right now, maybe not  _ever_.

If I get a chance later, when nothing hinges on me and Bruce and Dick are  _gone_  and far away, maybe I'll come back and consider it. Try and figure out exactly what it means and why my suit and name were important enough to immortalize in a glass case in the middle of the cave.

In the  _way_. It's not just prominent, it's directly between the computer and the car, which is a path that gets run past a lot. This is  _in_  the way, and I've never known Bruce to put anything in his way before. Ever.

Not now. Come back, think about it then, don't  _do_  this shit right now.

I shove my way past the case, blinking and heading for the computer. I have work to do, important mercenary work that I will lose  _all_  kinds of face on if I don't complete. I do this job, and my reputation gets a  _massive_  boost. It's not much of a choice, really. I can live without Bruce and Dick, if I have to, but unless I want to come back, live here, and be totally at their lack of mercy, I  _need_ my reputation.

I head towards the computer, and when I'm about ten feet away the screens light up and the chair in front of it turns. I freeze in place.

Bruce is sitting there, mostly in his costume but again lacking the helmet, blue eyes narrowed and staring me down. I can't help swallowing, and my right hand falls to the gun at my thigh before I force the instinct away and let go of it, straightening up. Bruce only watches, his arms laid out along the arms of the chair, and his mouth a thin line that screams that I have  _fucked up_. Yeah, this is really not as surprising as it should be to me.

I give a small shrug and head closer, circling to keep a short distance between us and leaning one of my hips against the computer's console. It hums at my side, monitors on but on a resting dash. Nothing important for me to read or find out from that. Bruce turns with me.

"You knew," I challenge him, and he gives a very small nod. "But you still brought me back here?"

"I was interested to see if you'd go through with it," he says, gaze flicking over me in a way that feels distinctly measuring, studying. "How much were you offered?"

I should really probably clarify all of this on the tiny little chance that he doesn't actually know what's going on, before I say something stupid and damn myself. "How about you tell me what I'm doing, and we go from there?" I ask, bracing my hand against the console because I can't cross it over my chest with my other one in a sling.

Bruce's lip curls up in a small sneer, but he inclines his head in acceptance. "Slade Wilson," he says to start, and I try not to give any reaction to the name, "he hired you under his alias, Deathstroke, to steal information from me. You took the job."

I give another small shrug, turning to actually sit against the edge of the console. "I'm a mercenary, what did you expect, Bruce? It's one hell of a title to my name if I get away with it; 'Red Hood, the guy who stole information from Owlman'. It has a ring to it."

Bruce makes a small noise of agreement, face a stony mask with only a bit of what isn't quite anger present in the lines beside his eyes. "How much, Jason?" He doesn't try to guilt trip me like he could have, which I appreciate. Sure, he could bring up family loyalty and all of that, but really I'm not in the mood and it probably wouldn't help him out in the long run. There's a lot of shit I'm trying not to think about right now.

"A lot," I answer, not naming the ridiculously high price I was offered — not demanded, but was offered. "Slade knows this was pretty much suicide, he's probably not expecting to have to pay out on it."

Slade Wilson was what almost counts as a hero for a long time. He was a mercenary, really, and he never claimed to be a hero, but he only took the jobs that genuinely helped people. He was the tool for dirty work by the rest of the hero community, and the guy who made one hell of a bodyguard if you could pay him the right amount. Dick's fought him more than I have, but what I did see, and the fights we've had, convinced me he's damn scary.

Now, of course, he's given all that up. He's the damn  _President of the United States_ , by some miracle that I think Luthor might have been behind. It works. Deathstroke was only mildly famous, he tended to keep to the shadows when he could afford it, and no one ever knew his real identity. Bruce, Dick, and I are Owls, we don't count. We know  _everyone's_  identities.

He makes a fairly good president, and he's been a much harder target for assassination than the last few we've had.

"If I hadn't been here?" Bruce asks, and I snort.

"I would have taken the information and bailed. Gotten the hell out while I still could. Why are you even asking, Bruce? Come on, I'm not your Talon anymore. I've got a name and a reputation all my own now." And it's one I want to  _keep_ , is what I don't add onto that. I don't  _want_  to go back to being under Bruce's shadow. I sigh and reach into my jacket with my right hand, retrieving the small USB drive from within one of my hidden pockets and tossing it to Bruce, who snatches it out of the air. "There. That's got a note on it with all the information he wants. Obviously I'm not getting out of here, and if you're going to kill me you might as well just do it. Injured," I lift my left arm a bit in demonstration, wincing, "so it's not like I can stop you."

"I have no interest in killing you, Jason," Bruce almost snaps, flicking the USB drive open and plugging it into the Owl computer. If I was suicidal, I'd remember that in case I ever want to bring down his systems with a virus. Since I'm  _not_ , I let it go.

The files come up, and Bruce clicks into the note with the list of what Slade wants to know. "It's all pretty basic stuff," I say, as he looks. "I took a look before I ever agreed, there's nothing in what he wants that could let him trace you back to being a Wayne, or give him any real kind of advantage. He's just looking for what you know, so he can get international shipments and organized heroes around you."

"It could be decently damaging," Bruce says quietly, "but you're correct, it's nothing that would seriously impact my organization." He turns back to me, hands dropping away from the console of the computer and back to the arms of the chair. I can see, and hear, the claws of his gauntlets tapping against the metal. "Was that intended, Jason?" he asks, flatly, and I answer instantly.

"Yes. I'd never go after you or Dick in any way that could hurt, Bruce. I wish it was something I could consider but it's just  _not_ , alright?"

He's silent for long enough that I start fidgeting, resisting the urge to reach for weapons or tools because things feel a bit like they're on a knife's edge, and I don't want to be the one to tip things over either side. Finally he gives a small nod and visibly relaxes a bit. "I don't approve of you going behind my back," he says, with an arched eyebrow that I'm starting to think he picked up from Alfred, "but I suppose your caution is understandable. If you are willing to cooperate, we can make this work between us without giving Slade any true information, while still upholding the name you've made for yourself."

That's a lot more than I was expecting to get. "Sounds good to me," I agree easily. "I was kind of expecting you to slit my throat if you caught me, so this works."

"Why did you take the job to begin with?" he asks, turning back to the computer and releasing me from his look. "If you were expecting me to kill you, this seems like a rather poor decision. Even if I only threw you out—"

"Then I look like an arrogant bastard who took a job he couldn't do," I finish. "Yeah, Bruce. I know. But if I  _did_ do it? That makes me the mercenary of the month, at the least. Even with the ones who will say you  _let_  me, which you are." I'm pretty sure Bruce rolls his eyes, but I can't see it from this particular angle. "So, what are we doing?"

"You'll deliver the information to Slade," Bruce answers, and I can see him transferring files into the drive my high-profile, kinda crazy, employer gave me. "You've clearly been in a fight that you may or may not have won, but you came out poorly either way. It will be especially obvious once Alfred's painkillers wear off. Add onto that the media's coverage of your fight with Dick, and his public defeat of you, and you should be able to pass off that you escaped or were let go from our captivity. Whichever you believe he will accept. You'll have the information, he'll have to pay you as well as accept that you did what you were paid to, but it's unlikely that I wouldn't have noticed your infiltration of my computer, even if I don't know precisely what was taken. Everything works out."

Not surprising from Bruce, but it's rather brilliant. I get the boost to my reputation, and the absurd amount of money I was promised, and Bruce only loses — at most, to cement the idea that he didn't know precisely what was taken until it's too late — one or two shipments before everything I give Slade becomes useless. Minimal damage to him, and a huge increase in fame for me, which in turn—

"And I get more useful to you, right?" I finish his thoughts, and he turns a small smirk on me.

"Naturally. The more your reputation rises, the more use I may have for you. Also, the more believable it will be that I don't simply kill you for this. Mercenaries will work for anyone, after all."

Right, there will be that whole 'convincing the Crime Syndicate' thing when this becomes public knowledge. They don't tend to look on betrayal real kindly, most of the time. Actually, speaking of the Crime Syndicate… The words stick in my throat, but I swallow once and then force them out of my mouth.

"Bruce," I say, and his eyes flick to me, "what did you do to Ultraman?"

"For killing you?" he asks in clarification, keeping my gaze, and I nod. He turns toward me, mouth once again a flat line of displeasure. "Nothing," he answers, and something in my chest clenches. Hard, cold,  _unbelieving_.

"That son of a bitch tortures me to death with his freak of a clone and you don't  _hurt_  him, Bruce?" I demand, my hand clenching on the edge of the console. "You're  _fucking_ kidding me."

" _Jason_ ," he snaps, dangerous enough to force me back into stillness from where I want to get up, walk over, and  _hit_ the bastard who dares to claim he cares about me when he let my murder go totally unavenged. "It wasn't publicized. The world, even the rest of the  _Crime Syndicate_ , only knew that you were killed. Clark didn't bring it up, so neither did I. Telling the world that one of those who worked for me was killed by someone I loosely call an  _ally_  would have opened me to much more than just your death. It would have put Dick in serious danger. Clark is too valuable to kill for now, he's a significant powerhouse that occupies the attention of many heroes. At the time, it was better to keep it quiet."

I bite down on my tongue, trying not to rage and  _tear_ at him. It's not  _fair_. None of this is  _fair_  in the fucking slightest. Anyone else gets hurt,  _Dick_  gets hurt, and Bruce goes after whoever did it like some kind of avenging angel.  _I_  die, get tortured to death and blown up  _right_  in front of him, and he doesn't even bother to  _touch_  the person who did it.  _Nothing_. I get  _nothing_.

Bruce gives a smirk that has decidedly more feeling, that almost looks  _wicked_  in the same way that Dick  _always_  smirks, and turns fully toward me. He stands from the chair, heading for me, and I have to clench my hand on the console to keep from trying to hit him as he gets closer to me. His hand rises, touching my cheek and then sliding back to thread through my hair.

"That can  _change_ ," he says, slowly gathering me closer and bringing my head to his shoulder. I don't fight him, waiting to see what he's going to say and how the  _hell_  he thinks he's going to make this better, but I don't lean into him either. "There's a meeting planned next week, all of the sidekicks will be there." I bite back the retort that I am not a goddamn  _sidekick_  anymore. "Dick included, as well as Kon-El, Conner." I tense a little further, and Bruce gives a low,  _vicious_  sound of amusement into my ear. "I think that would be a good time to bring all of this up, don't you think? I think Dick would  _love_  the opportunity to hurt Clark's boy."

I jerk a little bit away from Bruce, looking up the two inches of height he has on me, and he meets my look with a smile. " _You're_  going to pick a fight?" I ask,  _incredulous_  because Bruce does  _not_  pick fights he isn't absolutely certain he can win, and this is one of those.

"A fight?" he says softly, his free hand tracing down the line of my injured shoulder and arm. "No. But if the two of you happened to take Conner apart while the main Crime Syndicate members were sequestered behind walls soundproofed and shielded even to Kryptonian eyes, well… that would hardly be beyond the realm of possibility would it? I can bring what he did to you up, and make sure no matter  _what_  you do to the boy, as long as he's alive when you've finished with him, Clark will  _never_  touch either of you again." My breath comes short, sharp, and Bruce gives a very small smile when I swallow, thickly. "Does that sound good to you, Jason?" he asks, and a shudder shakes my shoulders.

I get flashes of bright blue eyes, black hair, a hand stronger than anyone has a right to be closed around my throat, hitting my ribs. The sharp  _fire_  of heat vision against my skin and the equal fire of breath so cold it  _burned_.

"Yes," I snarl, with only a small hitch to the word. Those fucking  _bastards_.

Bruce smiles, gathers me to him again and closes me in an embrace that's warm, solid, and careful of my injuries. "Then I'll make it happen. It shouldn't surprise anyone to see you at my back, and anyone it does surprise could use the reminder. Next week, you'll have your revenge."

I bury my head into the metal of Bruce's suit, closing my eyes tightly for a moment and curling my hand in the fabric that makes up the underside of his cape. "Thank you," I say, and he presses a kiss to the side of my head.

"When you died," he says after a few moments, "Dick wanted to track both of them down and take them apart piece by piece, with his bare hands.  _I_  held him back. I had to lock him in one of our cells to keep him here, Jason, and I don't think he forgave me until we found out you were alive again." His hand smoothes down over my back, and I stare blankly into the faintly reflective surface of his suit, waiting with halting breath for any other secrets or confessions to come out of his mouth. "You were missed, Jason, whether you believe it or not."

My throat closes in on itself, and I shudder against Bruce at the memory of Kon-El's fingers around my throat, bands of steel in a way that not even Bruce's suit can imitate. A grip I had no  _hope_  of breaking in my wildest dreams, not without a piece of kryptonite. Remembering the sharp  _snap_  of my calf out of fucking nowhere, with only a fraction of a second where my instincts screamed that something was  _wrong_  and I had to move  _now_ , which wasn't anywhere near fast enough, of course. Not enough time, not enough warning, to keep up with Ultraman's boy. It was like fighting a speedster when they're ambushing you; they break everything you need to try and keep up with them before you even know they're there, and they  _laugh_.

I was on my own, because I fucking stupidly decided to go off and try to be my own man, find a life outside of the shadow of being Owlman's Talon, and I should have known  _better_. Everyone  _hates_ us in some way or another, from fear or jealousy, and running from Bruce took me out from under his protection as far as any kind of 'official' dealings went.

Killing  _Talon_  would have been a nightmare,  _suicide_  to anyone daring to mess with what Bruce considered  _his_ , but killing one unnamed boy in a rundown apartment was miles easier. Killing Jason was  _easy_ , and totally free of any kind of retribution.

I don't know how Ultraman and his freak clone knew who I was, but I guess it doesn't really matter in the end. They  _knew_  somehow that I was Talon, and that I'd chosen to run from Bruce, and that was the important part.  _That's_  what let them kill me.

Bruce's fingers stroke down my back, slipping beneath the very bottom of my shirt to touch the skin above my jeans, and he leans his head down onto my shoulder in mimicry of my own position.

"Never again, Jason," he says softly, pulling me to him firmly but still so  _carefully_ , not hurting me at  _all_. It's strange. It's… nice. "I will declare open war on the entire Crime Syndicate before I let anyone touch you or Dick again, I  _promise_. Anyone who tries answers to  _me_."

The promise of bloodshed, death, and the annihilation of at  _least_  one city really shouldn't please me, hit me with enough emotion to bring tears to my eyes, but it  _does_. Like Dick promising that he'd never break me beyond fixing, Bruce promising that he'd start a war with the rest of the Crime Syndicate over me is… more than I could ever have asked or hoped for. I wanted to be avenged — when I found out that my death was basically silent, I was  _pissed_  — but I didn't expect anything public. I just wanted to know that Bruce actually gave half a fuck that I'd died, even if the dying was really my fault.

I just wanted him to  _care_ , and he  _does_.

"Thank you," I manage, quietly, and Bruce's lips press into the side of my neck in silent acknowledgement.

I clutch at his cape, feeling small again like I really  _am_  Talon once more. As if I could look down and be in my old uniform, Bruce's cape drawn around me and his name and arms protecting me from the rest of the world. Even if I was at his side, at his  _back_ , killing and fighting in his name and at his command, throwing myself headlong into danger and against knives and bullets, I always  _knew_  that unless  _I_  did something stupid, Bruce was never going to let me die.

Then I did something stupid, and got myself killed for it.

I can't  _wait_  to take that son of a bitch Kon-El apart. Let the bastard find out what it's like to  _really_  fight a Talon in our home territory, when he's not ambushing one of us out of costume and in our home. I'm going to  _enjoy_  helping Dick break him, watching my not-brother ply his talents on someone who doesn't  _know_  them like I do.

"Jason," Bruce starts, and he clears his throat with a noise that sounds a bit like he's  _actually_  swallowing back some kind of feelings. I don't lift my head, but I lean a little farther into him. "You should know that although I controlled myself, and Dick, that doesn't mean that I didn't feel anything over your murder. I can't count the number of times that I nearly…" I raise my head to look at him, and he meets my gaze after a moment, letting me pull back a bit and sliding his arms back. One hand rests on my right shoulder, over my jacket, and the other at my side.

"The number of times that you nearly what?" I ask, when he doesn't finish his statement.

His mouth is a thin line, and behind the cool front that I learned to look past a long time ago there's a dark  _fury_  that nearly makes me shiver. "That I nearly traveled to Metropolis and  _hunted_  them both down to  _break_  them beyond any chance of fixing." His lips curl in a tight smile, a  _cruel_  smile. "I dreamed about it, Jason, imagined torturing him the same way he tortured you every time I spoke to him. Better, of course," he says with a dismissive flick of his eyes and a sneer. "The fool doesn't  _really_  know torture."

That forces a tiny laugh from my throat, and I shake my head. "Yeah, that's true."  _I've_  done worse to people than Clark or Kon-El ever did to me, worse than they can probably even imagine or  _hope_  to match. "We can  _fix_  that." I can't help the shaky twist to my voice, or the snarl that curls my lips at the reminder that I get to take a knife to the  _bastard_  clone's skin and rip him apart in ways he's never even thought of.

I'm not Talon anymore, I'm  _not_  the murderer that I was, but I don't  _want_  to try and control myself right now. For a day, for  _revenge_ , I can let go of all the careful walls and rules I've built around myself over the last few years. I can forget that I'm trying to be something a little less irredeemably  _fucked up_  than a Talon, and step right back in beside Bruce to take what he's offering me.

Bruce smirks again. "I expect video," he nearly demands. "There's very little I enjoy more than watching the two of you…" The pause is drawn out, deliberate, and the tiny glint of heat in Bruce's eyes reminds me that we never  _did_  actually get anywhere last night. "Work," he finishes, quietly. I swallow.

"We'll record it or get it off security cameras," I promise, and he leans down, slowly, to kiss me. There's something careful in the way he does it, something  _gentle_  about the way his teeth graze against my bottom lip and he doesn't involve his tongue at all, that makes me feel a bit like something precious to be kept safe. Which pisses a few bits of me off, but everything else drowns it out because Bruce  _cares_ , and I'm pretty damn sure I  _like_  the idea that I'm valuable and  _important_  to him. I'm used to Bruce being demanding, passionate,  _controlling_  in all the best ways, but… this isn't  _bad_  by a long shot.

Especially since I'm pretty sure I couldn't handle a fuck right now even if I were really in the right mood for it.

"My  _good boy_ ," he whispers against my mouth, and I will deny till the day I die (again) that the praise makes me all but melt into him, my uninjured arm looping around his waist. Bruce embraces me for what I'm pretty sure is minutes, letting our lips part but still holding me against him, before very slowly pulling away from me.

"I'll get your information," he tells me, and —  _reluctantly_  — lets go of me, stepping away and turning back to the computers. I shift my weight to lean back into the console, sitting down on the edge and watching him settle back into the chair and get to work. "Dick will be in Bludhaven probably for the rest of the day, making sure our shipments run smoothly against any hero interference, but you are welcome to stay here to speak to him before you meet Slade."

A terrible thought sparks in my mind. "Does Dick  _know_  about this?" I ask, and my jaw clenches tight right after my words because  _shit_ , I don't think I want to face Dick if I have to  _tell_  him that I planned all of this and was actually going to follow through on all of it. That's… Oh, he'd  _hurt_  me a lot worse than what he already has. Kiss off walking or probably even  _moving_ for at least a week.

Bruce's lips flicker in a smile, and his gaze shifts to me for a moment with clear amusement before he returns it to the computers. "Yes, Jason. I told him when I knew of your plans, he took his anger out on several underlings weeks before you came to Gotham. The last of it is what resulted in the injuries to your ribs and shoulder; all of us are fully aware that he could have subdued you without needing to actually harm you that badly."

"Alright, good." True, Dick could have taken me down much more smoothly than he did, or at least much more precisely. His combat style in our fight yesterday  _did_  feel angry, meaner, and more ruthless than he had to be by quite a bit. I didn't think much of it then past the fact that I was only coming back to Gotham now and hadn't before. Dick  _despises_  being ignored, or forgotten.

Bruce shifts, edging to one side of his chair and inclining his head towards the right arm of it. "Come sit down, Jason; there are a few aspects of our strategy which should be discussed."

I take the invitation, walking over and sliding in beside Bruce on the metal command chair, my hip to his shoulder. "Yeah, sure Bruce."

It feels like coming  _home_.

* * *

Riding my bike one-handed is a special kind of talent, but it's also one that I've had a lot of practice in and is thankfully pretty easy now, since I know  _how_. Having an injured shoulder isn't a new thing to me, and my bike is set up and customized to be pretty friendly to most kinds of injuries. Once I ended up having to steer this damn thing with my elbows, with a hand to my throat to keep myself from bleeding or passing out, I took the whole thing apart and made it as automatic and easy to drive as I possibly could. A car would be even better, but cars aren't nearly as maneuverable as bikes are, and part of my whole survival trick is being hard to catch and harder to hit. Cars are bulky, motorcycles are fast and easier to get on or off of, as well as easier to turn when you're as practiced at it as I am.

Plus, it just generally makes me look like more of a badass.

Gotham isn't real used to me riding through its streets — and Dick might come out in the day a lot more than Bruce does, but his bike and mine are very different — so I get a lot of startled shouts and, briefly, a couple of police cars chasing me. I lose them  _laughably_  easily, cutting a path across the city to a mostly destitute, abandoned part of town. Not the neighborhood of Crime Alley, not quite, but just next door. More run down and less 'we'd like to burn you all to the ground but aren't allowed to'.

Classy, very original. Like  _all_  the shady shit between  _everyone_  doesn't go down in abandoned apartments or condemned warehouses. It's practically a rule of thumb.

I park my bark against a wall, in plain view of the whole street as I get off it because honestly, even if no one knows who I am — my reputation  _has_  reached general public ears, but I'm not as mainstream as a lot of others, Dick included — they'll see a guy with some really obvious guns and a big sheath for a knife on his leg and probably leave my bike the hell alone. Even if they don't, it won't matter. The wheels lock automatically, and only I can unlock it again.

I pull the red helmet — because Bruce apparently has been studying my helmet for months and made a few of his own, so I didn't have to go out with my shattered one — off my head and lean against the wall next to my bike, only freezing for a moment at the sharp pain that the movement brings.

The painkillers wore off hours ago, and I'm riding on tolerance and not much else, but I can handle it for now. I probably can't put up a good fight, and that's damn obvious since my arm's locked away in a sling, but I can move just fine otherwise. After Alfred worked his magic some of the pain eased. I'm still all kinds of screwed up, but I'm a little less 'startle me into tensing and I'll fall over', which is good.

I fish into my pocket, retrieving the work phone I keep — and the heavy case it's in since I went through about a dozen of these in just average fights before I invested in a really  _good_  case — and unlocking it, heading into the contacts and picking out Slade's number. It rings and I hold it up to my ear, holding it between my shoulder and head as I set my helmet aside on the seat of my bike.

He answers after the second ring, and the slightly gravelly voice — under a voice coder, so he's in costume or at least being careful — speaks, only slightly distorted by the call itself.

 _"It's the apartment building one block down on your left,"_  he says flatly,  _"apartment C-2, fourth floor. The door is unlocked."_  The line clicks dead, and I shove the phone back into my pocket. Slade might be able to make long speeches and be charismatic enough to keep the country happy with him, but Deathstroke generally isn't much for words to anyone he doesn't want to  _kill_. I guess that's good news for me.

I push myself off the wall, pulling every bit of Bruce, Talia, and Shiva's training into my head to not stumble or lock up, to weather the pain with an ease no one else can really match. I got trained by some of the best people in the  _world_ , I can handle a few bruised ribs and a screwed up back  _easily_. Anything else would be disappointing and undermine how  _good_ they all are, and how good they made  _me_ , and I have enough pride in my own skills and loyalty to my teachers that I  _won't_ let that happen. Let them take me down, throw together an autopsy, and wonder how I was even moving let alone nearly kicked their  _asses_. I'm that good and I  _know_ it.

I retrieve my helmet, tucking it under my good arm, and turn left down the street. It's easy to see which building Slade meant, almost immediately. There's a run down, partially boarded up apartment building crammed between two larger industrial style warehouse buildings, one of which is belching black smoke from a chimney near its back. Whoever planned this should be shot, really.

It still looks like it might be partially in use, maybe even legally, but there's not a soul in sight as I enter and pull myself up — a little painfully — three flights of stairs to the floor Slade specified. I don't trust the elevator in this place, even though it seemed to be sitting there and maybe even still usable. I prefer not getting stuck in anything I don't have to.

It's silent, except for some faint noises, through what look like paper-thin walls, from what I assume is the factory next door. A fairly rhythmic, heavy — but quiet from the distance — thumping noise. Otherwise there's not a single noise, and not a person. If anyone does live here they're gone, or they're hiding either by order or simply because seeing a masked  _anything_  in a place like this is not good news. Even heroes don't usually deal with people in places like this in any kind of friendly way. The Jokester's a notable exception, but that bastard's about the most naively optimistic fuck in the world, somehow.

I flick my eyes up and down the corridor that the stairs let out onto, and very briefly glance up the stairwell — what looks like five more floors — out of habit more than anything, before walking down the might-have-been-white-once carpet far enough to get three doors to my right. Apartment C-2. I twist the knob to let myself in, and instinct makes me scan all visible portions of the room as I step inside. It's mostly dark, the windows in this room boarded up so only a few cracks of light shine through to disrupt the shadows, but I can still only see the silhouette of a single figure in the darkness, and that's enough to get me to step all the way inside and shut the door behind me.

I reach to the side, flicking the light switch on the wall out of habit more than hope, and to my utter surprise it works. It's really not an apartment you'd  _want_  to see in the light, but the faintly yellow light  _does_  work. It's got pale greenish carpet that's the same shade as the walls — though I don't think the walls are intentional — and a few pieces of old furniture that look ready to fall apart. Probably the worst part is that I'm pretty sure someone is actually living in here too.

Slade, wearing a hood reminiscent of his Deathstroke costume and black gloves, but otherwise just a fairly nice suit, is standing against one wall. His hands are behind his back, and I don't doubt for a damn  _second_  that he's got something deadly in them. Just in case, and to put me on the defensive straight off the bat. I know how negotiations work.

The black and orange mask — the black solid, showing off and  _emphasizing_  that he can kick your ass even though he's half  _blind_  — hides pretty much all his expression except the narrowing of his one grey eye as he takes me in, in a long, slow, drag of his gaze up and down my frame. Studying  _purposefully_ slowly to try and make me uncomfortable and work out how susceptible I am to easier manipulations.

I ignore it — Bruce and Dick can make me squirm more with a  _glance_  — and return the look in a quick flick of my gaze down his body that I  _make_ obvious with a slight twist of my head, since he won't be able to see the brief glance underneath my new domino mask. It's not the round edged one I've been using, but it's not quite Talon's mask either. It's something in between, another gift from Bruce before he sent me on my way. I still haven't decided if I'm going back when this is finished.

I move forward across the apartment, circling to put the couch between us, and set my helmet down on the arm of the couch. The positioning of putting the couch between us isn't for any reason, really. It's not going to be an obstacle or a help to either of us, and if Slade really wants to kill me here he can, even if he's not totally geared up. I don't know exactly what he has hidden behind his back or in his suit, or what kind of security might be around since he  _is_ the president. I didn't  _see_ anyone, but there are a few heroes that could probably hide effectively from me, and enough boarded buildings around that a sniper wouldn't be hard to hide. Besides, Slade is not a normal human. He's not exactly a metahuman either, but he's a little bit enhanced. A little faster, stronger, just generally  _better_ than your average human, and trained in all  _kinds_  of weaponry and combat to a pretty damn perfect level.

I doubt Slade's going to try and kill me, but he'd like me to  _think_ it's a possibility. He's probably not really aware that I  _always_ think that way, that I'm  _always_ thinking of who could kill me, when, and where, from whatever building I happen to be in. Problems with being a mercenary with a fairly recognizable set of clothing that happens to look like civvies. Sure, legally I'm  _dead_ so it's not like anything's going to come up in databases, but it wouldn't be hard to think of me in a helmet and make the connection.

I was always on guard anyway — hard to come  _off_ being on guard after you  _die_ — so it's not like it's a big change. It just amuses me a little bit that Slade thinks I can be intimidated. At  _all_. Fuck, I not only hung out with Ra's al Ghul, Talia, and Lady Shiva, but I was the sidekick of  _Owlman_. Intimidation is not a thing I'm susceptible to anymore. At  _all_.

Except maybe from Bruce, sometimes. Dick worries me, he makes me wary, but he doesn't intimidate me.

"Red Hood," Slade greets, as I lean one hip against the back of the couch, testing how sturdy it feels. It doesn't in the slightest, so I keep my weight mostly on my feet.

"Deathstroke," I answer, tipping my head a bit in what he can consider respect, if he wants to. He hired me by his pseudonym, it would break a lot of unspoken rules to call him by his actual name. Maybe even enough to get me killed.

"Do you have the information I requested?" he asks, and I lift one corner of my lip in a sneer. Not really heartfelt, the question is rote more than any actual doubt in my abilities, but it's all about appearances.

"You think I'd show up to a drop without what I promised?" My tone is a bit nasty, but I'm not the 'hero' mercenary that Slade is so he won't expect anything less of me. He probably expects worse, honestly, since I was pretty well known as 'the angry Talon'. Dying didn't improve that much.

"I think you look like you took a beating," he answers flatly, "and that I saw the news report of your fight with Nightingale." Right, Dick pretty much breaking me in half in real public view of all Gotham's media, that was a thing. "You didn't look like much of anything out there, Red."

I give a shrug with my good shoulder. "You ever try getting across Gotham without Owlman tracking you? Or getting into any of his safe houses without him knowing? Way easier to get my ass handed to me and get invited into his base; I knew he wasn't going to get pretty boy to kill me." Yeah, Dick really  _did_  hand me my ass pretty neatly, but I chalk a lot of that up to old family loyalty. Because I am the only member of our fucked up group that hesitates hurting the other two, and that puts me at a disadvantage in  _everything_ , but especially fights. Maybe Dick's decided somewhere in his psychopathic brain that I'm worth protecting and  _not_  breaking, but there's a pretty wide margin in between kicking my ass and not breaking me that can be filled with all kinds of pain.

Slade tilts his head, stepping forward and away from the wall to stand next to the armchair across from the couch I'm behind. Totally pointless positioning from both of us, though I guess Slade might be worried that I sold him out and Owlman could come crashing through the window any moment. I'd like to say I've got enough of a reputation that he's not seriously considering that I sold him out in a business deal, but it's bullshit and I know it. It doesn't matter how good your reputation is, when it comes to family people are never going to really trust you to go against them.

"I didn't sell you out," I tell him bluntly, after he's watched me for a second, his arms moving as he toys with whatever he's holding behind his back. "The kind of credit I get for pulling off a job this risky? I'm not wrecking that chance just to avoid Owlman being irritated at me."

"Then you won't mind telling me how you got back out," he challenges, grey eye narrowing a little further. "If it was that easy."

"I didn't say easy, did I?" I snap back, with something close to a snarl. "I let pretty boy kick my ass, I was  _contrite_ , we made up, and I snagged your information and got the hell out while I still could. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't fun. So if you wouldn't mind, my  _payment_."

I can't really see it behind the mask, but I think Slade gives me a displeased look. "The information first, Red."

I snort, reaching into my jacket and retrieving the USB drive, tossing it to him with an underhand throw. His arms come out from behind his back — reaction speed just a little bit above a normal human's — and his left snags it out of the air. His right is holding, to my complete lack of surprise, a large knife that looks like it could do some pretty serious damage. He uncurls his gloved hand, looking down, and then his eye turns back up to me.

"So what's the reason I should give you the payment?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious and just a little bit wary.

Yeah, not surprised. Deathstroke, Slade, is a professional, and I doubt he'd  _ever_  turn on someone else the way he's implying he might, but between people like us this is just the way the game is played. If you're  _dumb_  enough not to have a background strategy for something like this, then you don't deserve the payment.

"Apart from the fact that your name will get  _ruined_ if you kill me, and we're both professionals who  _know_  that?" I shift my weight a little bit, still leaning on the couch with just a bit of it, not trusting the old piece of furniture to be any real kind of solid. "By my count you've got about twenty minutes to hack those files open, guess the right way to decode them, and take apart their coding before a virus built into them eats them alive and you never get it back. They're  _Owlman's_  files, Deathstroke, they've got one hell of a protection system. You plug that into any other computer and don't input the right codes within a minute, it'll send out an alert to him, destroy any and everything it can get its hands on, and delete all its own files as well. He doesn't  _take_  chances."

I'm pretty sure Slade smirks, and his head rises a bit as he slips out of the instinctively combat-ready stance he fell into when I tossed the USB at him, back up to standing straight. "I suppose you can disable the security on it?"

I give him a  _look_ , but nod anyway. "Yes. I know the codes to get you in."

"How is that?" This time, I just arch an eyebrow and snort again, refusing to answer his question. That's not information I'd give away even if this was legitimate, and not a complete setup by Bruce. "Fair enough," Slade agrees, with another look down at the USB in his fingers, "and the reason I shouldn't torture that information out of you?"

It probably says something pretty fucked about me that his threat doesn't even faze me a tiny bit. I don't flinch, I don't react, I'm not afraid or even wary in the  _slightest_. I give him a nasty grin.

" _Try_  me," I offer. "Been there, Deathstroke, done that. Dying wasn't as bad as what pretty boy's done to me while  _playing_ , you haven't got a fucking chance of getting anything out of me that I don't  _want_  to tell you."

Slade gives a low laugh, and a nod. "I believe that. You're quite the piece of work, Red."

I give a mocking half of a salute. "Product of Owlman, death, Ra's al Ghul, and Lady Shiva. I'd damn well  _better_  be or they'll get together and kick my ass for being a disappointment. That'd be a hell of a sight but  _I_  don't want to be in the middle of it."

He holds up the USB and tosses it back to me, and I snatch it out of the air on total instinct, fingers closing around the piece of hardware for a moment before I tuck it back inside my pocket. "I'll pull the laptop out, transfer the funds to whatever account you'd prefer, and then you can unlock that for me."

He leans down, behind the armchair, to pull up a briefcase, and I circle around to stand next to him. It feels weirdly relaxed to me, but I guess that's the things about being professional. Prove you can handle yourself, that you don't take  _shit_  from anyone, and everybody gets along just fine. It's all about goods and services, supply and demand, and there's no point to jeopardize that unless the person you're dealing with needs to be taught a lesson because they are an  _idiot_.

I've shot a few people for trying to take advantage of me, and a few more — after I had my payment and they had whatever they'd paid for — to prove a point that I  _could_  have taken their cash at any time, but was decent and  _didn't_.

"You trust me not to refuse and take off with your money after you pay me?" I ask, as he pulls a smooth, small laptop out and flips it open, balancing it on the back of the armchair. It turns on, the screen flashing with blue before running its systems through a startup program.

"No," he answers, amusement in his voice and not giving the slightest glance over at me, "but I have a rather large knife, and as we've already established you're not in the best of conditions to be trying to  _take_ anything from me. I think you know better."

"True," I answer, and turn my head away as he brings a browser up and then a bank page. I resist the urge to follow his movements, track what the password he's typing is, but it's  _hard_. "It's nice to be dealing with a professional again," I admit, resisting the urge to start when he lightly taps my injured shoulder, "I've had enough of the  _idiot_ minor leagues to last a lifetime. Or two in my case, I guess." I turn back towards him, and he motions to the laptop, which I then turn completely around to face.

"A few try and refuse you payment?" he asks, as I take a moment to confirm the amount in the half-completed transaction. The amount of zeroes in it is enough to bring a swell of pride and what nearly feels like  _glee_  to my chest; even as an adopted Wayne I never stopped appreciating money.

"Two who now lack kneecaps," I tell him, clicking into the right field and adding in the memorized numbers of my primary account, the one I've got most of my accumulated payments in. I've got them scattered all over the place, and even more cash in safe houses all around the world, but I route most of them through this account first. For convenience. "There's also one guy in a permanent coma; I didn't much appreciate him paying a sniper to try and take me out before he had to hand over the money he  _didn't have_."

That one pissed me off in particular.

I'm not some small time thug, or some idiot with a gun who takes contracts to kill because hey, how hard could it be? I'm a fucking professional, a killer by nature and trade, and I was trained by some of the deadliest people in the world on everything from torture, to murder, to how to take someone out cleanly without them ever even knowing you were there. I am  _worth_  my price, and people should know better than to try messing with me or not  _paying_  me. They should  _really_  know better than to hire some amateur — who, I'd bet, was never going to get paid either — to put a bullet in my chest before I ever found out he didn't have the cash.

"I heard about that one," Slade admits. "I won't say he got what he deserved, but it's true he picked a poor target to attempt that kind of a ruse with." Of course not, Slade might not claim to be a hero but he's enough of one that he could  _never_  say that someone  _deserved_ to be in a coma for life, even if the guy was a murdering asshole who didn't have the  _balls_  to shoot his business partner himself and tried to con me into doing it instead.

The computer chimes cheerfully, as does my phone, and I step back and reach in to pull it out. The email confirmation of the transfer is waiting, and I shut the screen of my phone back down and retrieve the USB from the outside right pocket of my jacket. I plug it into the side and wait a moment for the computer to recognize it.

Owlman's symbol — the circle, with something vaguely resembling an Owl's eyes and beak in it — flashes, and the computer goes completely black. Slade stays still at my side, not reacting to what anyone else would call my total lying  _bullshit_ , and I reach for the keyboard with a brief glance at him. I type the access code in — my old one for these files, reactivated  _just_  this once to let me do this — and the computer stays black for another two seconds before brightening back up. The folder is there, open, with the files he asked for.

"The program will remember that you unlocked it for this computer," I tell him, stepping to the side to let him approach the computer and click into the files, confirming that I got exactly what he wanted, "so it won't do that again if you plug it into this one. Don't put it into anything else if you value your files, a second unlock requires a second code." Which is why I know Dick's old code, and Bruce's, just in case. Those won't work now, and I've got absolutely no idea what Bruce or Dick's new codes are, since I'm damn sure that they've changed them at least a few dozen times by now. It happened at about the start of every month. "The same thing will happen if you try and copy any of them, or move them. Pretty much the rule is that you can open them and look on this computer, but don't do anything else or it'll set all kinds of viruses on the loose."

"Yeah, got it," Slade says, only briefly glancing at each document before closing it. He unplugs the USB, tucking it inside his suit, and pushes the laptop closed with a snap. "Pleasure doing business with you, Red." He turns to me, offering me a gloved hand, and I reach forward to shake it.

"So long as you've got the money, consider me available anytime." I'm  _not_  giving up being a mercenary, no matter  _what_ I choose to do in regards to Bruce and Dick. Connections like these are good, and Slade's got one hell of an influence in the mercenary community, the fact he chose me for a job and that I actually completed it without a problem will be a  _strong_ word in my favor. "It's probably a good idea to be careful with those," I offer, letting go of his hand, "and use them fast. I covered my tracks but this is Owlman you're messing with, it won't be long before he figures out I took something when I left, and not long after that before he figures out what it was."

Slade nods, eye not even narrowing. "I expected as much. I'll have more jobs for you before long, Red, this was mostly just a test of your capabilities, I don't expect to get much use out of these."

I raise an eyebrow and let loose another snort. "That's a hell of a payment for a test," I tell him flatly, and his eye crinkles at the corner in a way that feels like he's smirking or smiling under the mask.

"It was a hell of a test," he answers. "I would have offered you something simpler if you refused this, with a smaller payment, naturally. Unfounded arrogance is useless in our trade, as I'm sure you know." I nod, but don't offer any kind of a specific answer. He's right, of course. Arrogance is totally fucking pointless and a waste of  _everyone's_  time if you can't back it up, and I only bother acting like an arrogant ass because I  _can_  back it up pretty much every time.

Bruce and Dick do not  _count_.

"Looking forward to it then," I answer easily, turning to loop back around the room and pick my helmet up from its resting place on the couch's arm. I turn back to him when it's hooked under my arm, watching him put the laptop away, that big knife having never left his hand for even a second. I wonder if that's to try put me at least a little on the defensive — because it  _didn't_  — or if he just doesn't have a sheath for it with him, or in an easy to get to place. "Also,  _Slade,_ " he goes very still, the kind of stillness I equate to someone about to  _kill_ someone else, "if you use any of your connections to mess with my accounts in the  _slightest_ , I'll put a bullet in you. I don't give a  _damn_  who you are."

He makes a sound of amusement that I'm pretty sure comes out of a grin, his single grey eye locked on me and a little bit narrowed. "Wouldn't dream of it,  _Jason_ ,"

I'm not as surprised as I probably should be. Slade had all kinds of connections a long time before he ever became the fucking  _president_ , and obviously that only gave him more information.

I give him a return grin. "Touché. See you around, POTUS."

I head out of the apartment without another glance back, slipping outside and closing the door. The stairs are a little easier going down then they were going up, and I wait till I'm all the way to my bike before I let myself lean against the wall and just breathe for a second. It's not a  _lot_  of pain, not the kind of sharp knife that can drive your breath out or kill your sense of  _anything_ , but it's steady. Tolerance only lasts for so long.

I straighten up and shift my grip, reaching up to put my helmet back on. It's a little tricky doing it one handed, but I've done it before and I manage it now too without that much of a problem. It clicks into place with a faint hiss of the ventilation, and the screens on the inside click to life. Only a few options, a reticle and some small zoom effects. Oh yeah, and the blinking off to the left of my left eye that lets me know I'm still connected to someone in an intercom.

"How much were you listening for?" I ask, getting onto my bike and activating it the easy but slower way, by tugging off my glove and pressing my hand to the screen between the handlebars. It reads my fingers, and Bruce answers.

" _The whole time. Dick is here too._ "

" _Pretty boy, Jason? I'd be offended if it wasn't true,_ " Dick sounds like he's purring in my ear, and I swallow even without the added touch of his lips or the rush of his breath against my skin. My bike hums to life beneath me, and I tug my glove back on.

"You like the attention," I tell him flatly, not even bothering to  _pretend_  I'm sorry because I know damn well that Dick  _likes_  being looked at and  _likes_  being considered to be attractive. "Don't fuck with me, Dick."

" _That's a_ _ **lot**_   _to ask,_ " Bruce says dryly, and I can hear the faint tap of keys in the background that I'm totally sure is him and not Dick. Dick doesn't usually touch computers unless he has to, he lets Bruce do all that work.

I pull my bike onto the street, turning it to head back into the busier, less condemned, and less 'stab you in an alley' feeling areas of Gotham. I gun it, feeling the power beneath my legs and the cold rush of wind against my chest and neck, where the jacket isn't covering, since it's not zipped closed. Pain fades away a little bit, and I sink into the easy feeling of controlling the machine beneath me with my weight and my single working arm.

" _Come back to the Roost, Jason,_ " Dick asks,  _demands_ , in a voice that screams sin, and I snort.

"You're not fucking me," I answer flatly. "You know damn well I don't  _like_ pain, and I'm not in the mood to suffer through it for either of you. I haven't even decided if I want to stick around," I cut Dick off  _sharply_  when he starts to speak and — I've got no doubt — tell me that of  _course_  I want to stay and he's going to convince me of that, "and if you come near me right now I'm  _leaving_  Gotham. Don't even  _try_ ; I'm not fucking around."

" _I'll make sure he stays away,_ " Bruce promises, before Dick can say anything at all. " _You'll get the space to think, Jason, and as far as_ _ **I**_   _am concerned it doesn't matter what you decide. The door will remain open, and I'll still give you the chance at Kon-El._ "

I pull to a stop at a red light — because there's a couple of large trucks passing through and while I  _could_  skid under them I don't want to  _have_ to — and straighten up a little bit. "Thanks," I say simply, cutting off Bruce's name even though it's on the edge of my tongue. I'm still in public, and my helmet absorbs the sounds coming out of the intercom system but not my own voice. That's kind of the point. If your helmet makes it so no one can hear you unless you activate that particular function, inevitably you're going to end up looking like a mime when you get too busy, too angry, or too afraid to remember to press the button first.

" _I want you_ _ **back**_ _, Jason,_ " Dick nearly snarls, and I can hear frustration in his voice, " _and if you leave Gotham I'm hunting—_ "

" _Dick, don't—_ "

"— _your ass down and making you_ _ **explain**_   _why the fuck you're leaving me, little wing. You got that?_ "

I nearly crack a grin under my helmet at the sigh that comes through my helmet's earpieces, Bruce's. "Yeah, I got it. Like I'd just up and run."

" _You have before,_ " Dick snaps instantly, and even miles away and just a voice in my ear his tone makes me flinch a little bit. " _You_ _ **die**_   _on me again, Jason, and I'll bring you back and tie you up in the Roost for the rest of your_ _ **fucking**_   _life to keep you safe from your own_ _ **stupid**_   _need to run._ "

My jaw clenches, and I rev the bike a lot more forcefully than I have to the second the light turns green, tires screeching across the asphalt as I shoot out between the rest of the cars on the road. "And I'll tear your damn throat out if you  _try_ ," I snarl back. "I'm not a fucking princess to keep safe, you  _bastard_ , and if you ever try and  _force_  me to stay anywhere I'll slit your fucking throat."

" _No you_ _ **wouldn't**_ _. You're all bark, Jason._ "

" _Fuck_  you, Dick." I wrench my bike to the side to avoid a slower car, zipping by close enough that it startles and swerves behind me, and the crash I can hear feels  _good_.

" _ **Enough**_ _,_ " Bruce says, in the rumbling 'you'll  _listen_  or I'll beat you black and blue' voice, " _both of you._ "

" _He—_ "

" _ **Dick**_ _,_ _ **enough**_." I swallow, reminded vividly of my starting years. Dick and I got in fights a fair amount, and he kicked my ass a few dozen times just because I pissed him off, and  _that's_  the voice Bruce always used when he'd had  _more_  than enough of our bullshit. " _Jason, go. Think. Dick, you have_ _ **heroes**_   _to stop. Do your_ _ **job**_ _._ "

The line clicks dead, the three-way call shut down by Bruce, and I pull into a side street and  _skid_  to a sideways stop, breathing hard and swallowing back fury and  _pain_. I raise my head to look at the couple of startled citizens staring at me, eyes wide in fear and recognition, and I snarl and rev the bike's engine just to watch them scatter,  _screaming_. I wish it made me feel better.

My gaze flicks up, towards the top of the buildings, and I settle my gaze on the highest one in the area. This is downtown Gotham, so it's  _damn_  high, and it's the  _perfect_  place to get left the fuck alone by everybody who isn't wearing a cape or a mask, and if those  _bastards_  come near me I don't  _care_ what they'll try, I'm  _leaving_.

I turn my bike towards the skyscraper and take off again, faster than is safe and a  _lot_  faster than the police want me going but  _fuck_  them.  _Fuck_  everyone.

 _This_  is the  _goddamn_  problem.

Yeah, I've  _fucked_  up a few times pretty royally big. I've run, and I've lied, and I've done a lot of stupid shit that I probably shouldn't have, but they were  _my_  choices. No one else  _ever_  gets to make those calls for me, or try and  _force_  me to make any choice or do  _anything_  that I don't want to even though  _no_ , I don't have the fucking will to try and cut Dick's throat if he tries. I don't think I'd win anyways, but that's not the  _point_. If I was willing to really  _try_  maybe he'd back the fuck off and let me live my own damn life, stop trying to tell me what to do and what the hell to think.

Saying he  _cares_  doesn't mean a damn thing if all he's going to do is circle around me and bite and snap every time I make a fucking  _twitch_  that he doesn't like the direction of. I'm not a pet, and I'm not a  _fucking_  princess to be locked in a damn tower, and if Dick even  _thinks_  that he can do that to me and get away with it he's batshit  _insane_. Maybe I couldn't kill him for it, but I can  _hurt_  him, and I can fight, and run with every single bit of skill I have and  _never_  let him even  _touch_  me again.

I can vanish, I know  _how_ , and even though Bruce could find me maybe Dick couldn't.

That's starting to sound  _damn_  good right now.

No, you know what? To  _hell_  with Dick. I'm leaving Gotham, and I'm vanishing off the fucking face of the Earth, and he can kiss my ass if he can find it because I won't put up with this  _shit_. I'm Jason Todd, I'm the Red Hood,  _Deathstroke_  thinks I'm a damn good mercenary, and I won't take Dick's fucked up possessive, smothering,  _bullshit_.

If I  _feel_  like coming back for Bruce's promise to have a chance at Kon-El I will, but I'm not coming back a damn  _second_ before I want to. Not because Dick's trying to  _make_  me.

 _Fuck_  him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So, _all_ kinds of things happening in my world, but I won't bore you with details except to say that it's been exciting. There's a fairly big update on my Tumblr page that talks about it, so if you're interested head over there! Now, this is chapter three! One more big one to go, and then a short epilogue after. (There's one particular scene/idea I really wanted to include, but smooshing it into chapter 4 would have been awkward. So, epilogue!) Then, we shall move on to other stories! Yeah! Alright, enjoy this, let me know what you think!

Watching the side of the mountain slide open is still weird to me. It doesn't matter how many times I've come here at Bruce's back or on my own, seeing the faint shimmer of the illusionary shield click into place around me, and the side of the mountain slip sideways into itself, still weirds some part of me out. It's just a bigger version of the Roost's entrance, but the fact that the Crime Syndicate can use a damn  _mountain_  as their base and nobody's noticed yet is… it's insane.

I ease my bike forward, through the opening at a slower pace and into the garage. There's already a pretty large variety of vehicles parked inside, including Bruce's plane, which means him and  _Dick_  must be here.

My jaw clenches, but I don't stop or let the anger disrupt the way I move. I draw my bike into an empty spot, engaging the kickstand with a snap of my foot and swinging off the back of it. I can hear the wheels lock with a quiet click as I turn it off, and I stretch my arms over my shoulders as I step away from the bike and glance around. The entrance is sliding shut again with a pretty impressively minimal amount of rumbling, and I head for the archway into the main entrance.

A familiar figure steps into the middle of it before I can get through, flashing a grin at me and a half-assed saluting wave with his right hand as I draw to a stop in front of him.

_Harper_. To his credit, he's probably one of the only people in here that I genuinely like pretty much all the time, with the exception of the few times his carefree, easygoing ways have come close to fucking with how I do my job. It was usually fine. Underneath his smartass, lazy exterior Harper — Arsenal, recently, after he decided 'Speedy' was dumb — is genuinely talented, and a hell of a fighter. He could kick my ass in a ranged fight, that's for sure, though I'd wipe the floor with him within a couple minutes if he tried to fight me hand-to-hand.

"Red," he says, in a welcoming tone but  _not_  stepping aside to let me through.

"Arsenal," I answer, taking a brief glance down his frame to scan for weapons. He's almost got the same setup as me, a knife on one thigh and a handgun on the other, but instead of having more guns hooked up to him he's got his signature red bow slung over his back, and quivers on both his left hip and peeking over his right shoulder.

"I'm working door security," he says with a pained look, and a shrug. "You're not  _really_  supposed to be here, Red. You're not part of the Crime Syndicate anymore."

"I got  _invited_ ," I say with a snort, nodding back in the vague direction of Bruce's jet. "The Owl. You think I'd step foot back in this place if I didn't have a reason? It's not like being around all of these bastards is actually good for my health."

"Present company excluded?" Harper jokes, with another grin, and I roll my eyes under my mask.

"Present company  _really_  included," I say with a snort. "You're a disaster waiting to happen, Arsenal."

"Yeah, fair enough," he says, without any kind of obvious offense, and lifts his chin in some kind of indication. "Mind taking your helmet off for a second then, just so I can make sure? I'm pretty damn sure it's you, but Archer would skin me alive if I didn't, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," I reassure him. "No problem."

I lift my hands up and disconnect the helmet, pulling it up off my head and barely even minding the short second where it blocks my view and I can't see anything. It's just Arsenal. I blink behind the domino mask, tucking my helmet under my left arm and arching an eyebrow. They're under the mask, but I know from experience that you can still see the muscles work to raise it, and it comes across pretty much the same.

"Great, thanks buddy." I don't move to put my helmet back on, shifting it under my arm as he steps to the side with an exaggerated flourish. "Welcome back to the base, Red. You're coming in at the tail end, everybody's pretty much gathered. Least you don't have to wait though, right?"

"Yeah," I agree, stepping into place beside him as he leads the way through the arch and back into the main areas of the base. It's pretty much exactly the same as I remember, with the exception of a few upgrades that look like they're tech based, and pretty obviously superior to whatever the hell was there before. It's been  _years_ , but I guess you don't have to fix what isn't broken.

"So you make up with the old bastard or what?" Harper asks, and I shoot him a glance that he offers a smile to. " _Owlman_ , sorry."

Against everything, I feel a grin tug at my lips. "You're overestimating how much I give a shit about him," I say easily, "I don't give a fuck what you call him around me. And make up?" I pause, grimace. "No, not really. But I got invited, so I'm here. If things go any way but how I want, I'm out again and back off to my nice little corner of the world to kill people for  _obscene_  amounts of money."

Harper gives a low whistle. "Sounds like mercenary work suits you," he says, with a small laugh. "But  _damn_ , crossing the bastard like  _you_ did? That's a hell of a dangerous move, Red, you're lucky you got away with it."

I shrug, taking glances at the other criminal metas we pass by. Most are in smaller groups, chatting. It looks like this is a serious meeting with a pretty large group of people.  _Good_ , that'll make the best impression. "Mercenaries are useful," I say with a small shrug. "So long as he knows he can pay me to work for him, why the hell would the Owl take me out of play?"

"Gee," Harper starts, "maybe 'cause it'd tell all the other mercenaries out there that if they take a job against him it'll be suicide, even if they get away with it? Just sayin'."

"You're an ass, Arsenal."

"Guilty as charged," he replies, without missing a beat. "Come on. I didn't get told about you coming by, so I've gotta take you to the Owl. You get it, right?" I nod, turning with him as he leads the way in towards the deeper areas of the base. It's been a long time since I've been in here, but I recognize the path we're taking as into one of the back rooms. Of course; Bruce would never mingle with normal criminals if he could help it, even if Dick prefers company.

"Yeah," I answer, feeling the slightly sick churn in my gut but not letting it show.  _Fuck_ , it's not even Bruce I'm concerned about. He  _said_ he was fine with whatever I decided to do, and I think I might actually believe that he meant it. At least, Bruce doesn't usually go back on his word, not to Dick or me. Not as far as I remember.

It's  _Dick_ that makes me nervous.

He didn't come after me. I spent the last week healing in peace, far outside of Gotham, before I got Bruce's email — I really didn't ask how Bruce knew my email, would have been a dumb question — giving me a location and a time for the Crime Syndicate meeting. So here I am. But the last things Dick and I said to each other, that he said to  _me_ … We've been at each other's throats before, but not since before I died. For a minute there I thought that our so-called family was actually going to get along again. We snapped but it was normal, taunting more than actually meaning anything and I thought…

Well, why the hell does that matter now? I decided that I was done getting yanked around by him, done getting hurt, and  _done_  having to put up with everything that he decides he wants to do to me. I don't want to play the part of his toy, and I don't want to suffer his damned attention just to keep him happy. I'm not a masochist and I'm not a  _fucking_ toy, and I'm sick of acting like I am. Even while I was gone, even while I was just Red Hood, I put myself at the feet of Talia, and Lady Shiva, and god damn Ra's al Ghul, and I  _let_ them order me around.

I'm sick of it.

I'm going to take the revenge Bruce promised me, take Kon-El apart with my bare hands and a knife, and then we'll see. I'm  _not_ letting Dick force me into being what he wants again, I  _won't_ do it, I  _can't_ , but if he can accept that… Maybe if he can meet me on ground where we're equal, or at least  _more_ equal, than I can give it another try. But this  _bullshit_ where he gets to do whatever he wants, and I have to take it? No, that's fucking done.

"You alright, Red?" Harper asks, and I shrug and flash an empty grin on automatic.

"Fine."

"Liar," he counters instantly, and snaps almost the exact same grin back at me. "Don't bullshit a bullshitter, you know?"

Fuck, I  _forgot_  that Harper does that. It's easy to read people without them noticing when you behave like a carefree moron, and you don't get to be one of the two best archers in the world by being an idiot. I've only worked with or next to him a couple of times since I died — Harper and Queen tend to be way more forgiving about mercenaries in their city than most of the other high rankers — but I remember this perceptive thing from back when I was Talon. It always surprised me then too.

"Alright." My fingers tap against the outside of my thigh, inches from my gun. "I'm worried about Nightingale a whole lot more than Owlman," I admit.

To his credit, Harper winces and cringes just a little. See, it's the  _real_  idiots that fear Bruce more than Dick. Sure, Bruce can erase you from all legal existence, torture you, kill you, and generally make your life a living hell, but so can Dick. Way more importantly, Dick will enjoy all of it and draw it out just to make it last longer. Bruce just sees it as a punishment, or some kind of fucked up vengeance. Dick  _likes_  it.

"Apart from the obvious, you do something to piss him off?" Harper asks, and when I don't answer for a second, practically confirming his suspicions, he continues. "God,  _why?_ Nightingale's a  _bad_ person to piss off, Red, you know that. Everyone who isn't an idiot knows that."

Really, everyone who's ever seen Dick in action knows he's not to be fucked with, but anybody who isn't totally blind and stupid should also see that pissing off a psychopath like him is a horrendously bad idea.

"He doesn't like being avoided," I say in answer to Harper's exclamation, and he gives me a bit of a weird look. Right, the world might know that I've got a bit of a thing against Owlman, and that Nightingale kicked my ass last week right before I stole information from the two of them and sold it, but apart from the heroes that trained me, most of the world still doesn't know that I was actually Talon to start with, before I was Red Hood. There are some exceptions — Slade comes to mind, immediately — but it's generally only people interested specifically in me, as well as ones with ridiculous connections.

Ra's and Talia wouldn't hand my identity out to just anyone, they respect me a little bit more than that. It's the same reason I won't hand out their secrets unless I haven't got a choice; it's as simple as mutual respect.

"Is it just the stealing information thing, or is it more?" Oh,  _so_ much more. I don't know how Dick is going to react to seeing me, or how violent he's going to get, or if the nagging hope that he'll just leave me be is any more than total bullshit naivety.

"No offense," I say with a snort, as I glance over at Harper, "but it's none of your business." Even in the friendlier relationships like the one between him and me, us Syndicate members don't trade information like that for free. All knowledge is worth something, and giving away something you could sell is a sign of either idiocy or weakness. Harper won't take it that way, but I'm still not doing it.

He grins and gives a small laugh, flicking his hand towards a door about three dozen feet in front of us. Must be the back room we're headed for. "No offense taken," he reassures me. "Whatever it was, good luck, Red. Somehow I've got this sneaking suspicion you're gonna need it."

I glare at him, briefly, but he's stepping ahead of me to open the door so it's only at the back of his head. I don't answer him — 'thanks' don't get traded around among people like us without good reason — and he keys in what must be a basic code to a panel beside the door. Four, two, seven, three; wonder if that has any actual significance to anyone? It beeps, and then the door disengages with a heavy sounding clunk, swinging open a few inches. He pushes it a little farther, and gestures me in with a smile and one hand.

Swallowing down nerves, I take the offer. The door is about as heavy as it looks, but I shoulder my way in past it with only a little trouble. I remember these basic back rooms, and yeah, they haven't changed. Fairly small, nothing in it but couches and a low table, and I remember that they're soundproofed too, and shielded from just about every kind of probing or sight. They're intended as rooms to make alliances and deals, but in comfort and not around the official Crime Syndicate table. Therefore, secure.

My grip on my helmet, still tucked under my arm, tightens as I meet the gazes of the two people in the room. Bruce, all decked out in his suit, is sitting on the couch opposite the door, mouth a flat line. One of his arms is along the back of the couch, splaying his cape across the cushions, and one of his legs is crossed over the other. There's a tablet balanced on his knee, where his other hand is, but his head is tilted up towards where I've come in. He's hard to read past the helmet, but it's not friendly, and it's definitely not welcoming.

Dick is leaning over the back of the couch, at Bruce's shoulder, arms crossed underneath his chest and his back a straight line out to his hips where he's bent, but he's looking up at me too. He's  _much_ easier to read, mostly because his lip is drawn up a little bit in a sneer. Oh, this is  _not_ going to be fun.

I almost cringe when the door swings back shut behind me, lock engaging with the same heavy clunk, and I stare down my family. None of us move for a few moments, and then Bruce's mouth flickers in a displeased downwards tilt.

" _Sit_ , Jason," he demands, and I hesitate just a second before looping around the couch between us and to the far end of the couch on the left. Only out of the prompting of a small, sad part of me that thinks it might be just a  _touch_ safer if Dick is on the opposite side of Bruce from me. I'm healed sure, the only part of me that's still injured at all is some leftover soreness in the shoulder he wrenched, but with both of them in the room if they decide to come after me I'm just plain fucked.

I can handle one of them, sometimes, but both? No way.

I set the helmet aside without looking, and Dick straightens up behind Bruce to watch me. The sneer is gone, but he still looks angry, displeased with me in all the ways that it's really dangerous for him to be. Bruce picks up the tablet on his knee and sets it aside on the couch, then turns and focuses completely on me. His movements are slow, deliberate, which is just another way of saying he's restraining himself.

I bite my tongue, watching both of them in turn and trying to figure out just how pissed they are — how pissed  _Dick_ is — about me dropping off the map. Yeah, Bruce gave me permission to,  _technically_ , but technicalities don't usually fly well with either of them. This might hurt.

"I assume," Bruce starts finally, "that since you're here you're still interested in your revenge?" His voice is clipped, flat, and apart from that I can't read a damn thing off of him. It's kind of unnerving, and it worries me mostly because if he's this shut off he's not relating to me anymore. He might even have given up on the idea of me completely and that's… it hurts to think about.

Bruce…

In our weird, threeway  _thing_ , I really don't have a problem with most of what Bruce's part of it is. I'm  _still_ not down for pain, and sometimes he can be a smug  _bastard_ , but generally the way he treats me between the three of us is… fine. No, it's  _good_. It's all about the power, and whatever the hell is wrong in my head doesn't matter,  _that's_ my thing. Bruce holds tighter than he has to, but most of that is pins and I'd be the first to admit, if grudgingly, that being held down in a pin I legitimately  _can't_ break is a serious turn on. I don't mind that a bit of pain comes along with that.

_Dick's_ the problem.

"Yes," I answer simply, glancing up at Dick without moving my head, underneath the films of the domino mask. He shouldn't be able to tell. I resist the urge to spit their words — the promise that even if I chose to leave Gotham, Bruce would  _still_ let me take Kon-El apart — back at them, keeping my answer to the one word.

Bruce gives a single nod, and with the same careful precision he uncrosses his legs and stands off the couch. "Dick knows the specifics," he states, and sweeps for the door without another word.

I resist the urge to pretty much throw myself towards him and plead that he not leave me alone with Dick, or maybe that he just stay to moderate this whole thing, but I swallow down the urge. I don't even watch him leave, keeping my gaze on my not-brother. He's the dangerous part here. If Bruce has decided I'm not worth keeping hold of —  _ouch_ — then that's that, but Dick clings a lot more, and he really  _doesn't_ like being avoided.

The door opens, and then closes — it feels just a bit like getting shut in with my executioner — and I can see Dick's hand clench over the back of the couch for a second before he lets go completely. "The meeting starts in about half an hour, all of the sidekicks and the subordinates will end up gathered in the lounge areas." His voice is restrained anger, and he slowly heads around the far side of the couch. "We'll take the clone out of there, bring him back into one of these rooms. Bruce will make sure that even if any of them is  _stupid_ enough to try ratting us out, the doors won't open. It's all set up; I have the kryptonite."

"Alright," I agree, and there's another moment where he just stares at me before he steps forward. I swallow thickly, ready to move if he tries to touch me because I am  _not_ down to get sucked back into the trap that is Dick's touch, but he just sinks to his knees in front of me. Not touching.

I can see his fingers curl, like he  _wants_ to touch, but he doesn't. He just watches me, before he finally lets out a long breath and ducks his head, one hand coming up and peeling the domino mask off his face. It feels like there's a knot in my throat, and he blinks revealed blue eyes a few times, the piece of reinforced plastic held loosely in his gloved hand. It feels… It feels  _vulnerable_ , and I'm  _really_ not used to Dick  _ever_ being vulnerable. That's not a  _thing_.

"You  _left_ ," he says quietly, raising his head to look at me again, through the strands of his black hair that fall closer to his eyes.

I swallow again, but manage to force out, "You pushed."

His eyes narrow just a little bit, but he shakes his head and gives a smile that's all teeth and  _feeling_. There's no humor there, there's no  _happiness_. I don't understand what's going on, I don't know what he's  _doing_ , and that kinda freaks me out. Even a predictable Dick is dangerous, and an unpredictable one is flat out deadly. I don't like not knowing what he's going to do; for all I know he could be planning how best to cripple me limb by limb until I stop moving at all.

The smile fades away, and Dick's gaze flicks to my helmet, then back to me. "I thought I had you," he admits, with another flash of teeth. "I didn't think you meant what you said."

Which is the  _problem_ , isn't it? Dick doesn't think of me as a threat, or even as someone to be respected. He doesn't think I have the power to back up my threats, and for the most part he's right. I don't have the determination — I'm pretty damn sure — to do half of what I've threatened to.

"Maybe I can't hurt you, Dick," I say, slowly, "but I know how to run. If you try and  _make_ me do anything I'll fight you every step of the way, however I have to."

The smile that quirks his lips is small, and he leans just a little forward and tilts his forehead to rest against the inside of my knee. Barely touching, still holding my gaze, still open and so  _vulnerable_. "I believe you." That takes my breath for a second, and his eyes close. He  _believes_ me? Seriously? "I don't like this, Jason," he say, mouth drawing into half a sneer as his eyes flick back open. "I want  _you_ ," now his free hand rises, carefully touching my calf, my ankle through the jeans and socks. "I don't  _like_ that I don't  _have_ you." His sneer drops, and he doesn't look anything but serious when he says, "Tell me what I have to do to make that happen."

"Seriously?" I blurt, without thinking about it, and he nods.

" _I want you_ ," he repeats, stressing it. "Tell me what I have to change."

I… that… I was  _not_ expecting that. Is this really  _serious?_ Is Dick  _really_ thinking about changing, about doing what  _I_ want instead of whatever the hell he feels like? Or is this something that he'll forget about in a week and I'll end up in pain again? Why would he ever actually mean it?

"What changed?" I demand, and he gives a slightly sharper smile.

"You did what you said you would." It's simple, an easy answer, and I stare down at Dick almost unbelievably.

Is that  _it?_ Is that all I had to do this  _whole time?_ Just do one thing that I threatened to, when he pushed me? Was it really as simple as proving that I would actually fulfill my promises? But that's so ridiculously easy, it's so  _basic_. Have I really just been a moron about this whole thing?

Wow. Alright then.

I chew on my thoughts and words, staring down at Dick, as he waits. Just… waits. It's weird. I'm not used to Dick waiting for anyone to do anything, he's pretty much always leading the pack, or right at Bruce's back. This is really serious. Holy  _fuck_ he's actually considering exactly what I've been thinking would never happen. He's treating me like a real person, like an  _equal_.

"I'm not a masochist," I spit out, first, and he blinks and looks up at me with the faintest hint of confusion. "I don't like pain, Dick," I clarify, shaking my head and clenching my hands to fists for a second. "I've  _never_ liked it. I'm not your toy, and I'm not a plaything, and unless I give you  _explicit_ permission I don't ever want you to hurt me just because you feel like it."

He tilts his head a bit, studying me with what feels like a considering, weighing stare. "You've liked what I've done to you before," he points out, and it doesn't feel accusatory just, matter of fact.

"Just because you can  _make_ me like it eventually doesn't mean it starts that way," I argue down at him. "This is a hard limit for me, Dick. I don't like pain, it's not my thing, and I'm  _not_ willing to let you do whatever the hell you want to me anymore. If I  _want_ to let you that's one thing, but I'm your  _equal_ and you damn well don't get to treat me like anything but that. If I don't want it, you  _don't_ get to do it to me. Alright?"

My heart feels like it's wrapped in ropes, in  _chains_ , for the few seconds before Dick answers. I'm not expecting anything from him, I'm really  _not_. Dick's always done whatever he wanted to, run roughshod all over me and my so called 'limits', and I'm not expecting him to give that up. If he took to hunting me down whenever he wanted me, instead of waiting for me to come back, I honestly don't know if I could resist him. I don't know if I'd want to. I don't want to find out.

"Alright," Dick agrees, quietly, and turns his head sideways into my knee, gripping my calf gently, loosely. "What else?"

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,  _don't_.

I pause for a few seconds, thinking about it. Really, the pain thing is my main, big issue. It's Dick  _listening_ to me that was the really important part anyway. Now that he's doing that, what more do I really want from him? It clicks, and I wait for him to turn fully back towards me before I say what's finally fit together in my head.

"I'm not Talon anymore," I tell him, matching his quiet voice, and then look away for a second, gathering myself together. "Maybe I'm still an Owl, but I'm not the sidekick anymore and I'm not the new kid. You don't just get to yank me around and expect me to take it, Dick." I shove out a breath and meet his eyes squarely again. "Maybe I'll do shit you don't want me to, and maybe they'll be stupid choices, but they're  _mine_. I've got a name and a life outside of the two of you; I'm not giving that up."

Dick looks displeased for a second, unhappy and maybe even angry, but then he takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes, leaning into my leg a little more firmly. He pulls back after a second, straightening and looking up at me. "Alright."

I dip my head in a nod, not able to see anything but serious acceptance in his eyes, and he pauses just a moment before easing back to his feet. His hands touch my knees — full fingers on one hand, only the two not holding his mask on the other — and he tilts his head a little bit, easing between my legs cautiously, slowly. He's… He's waiting for me to tell him he can't, and the  _guilt_ that hits me in the stomach feels like a real blow. I didn't mean to…

I reach up without thinking about it, and he stays still as I touch his cheek, the side of his face. He leans into it — Dick's always been  _so_ touch oriented, how the  _fuck_ could I ever deny him that? — and I can feel his breath against the little bit of exposed skin between my jacket and my glove. Right when I gather all my thoughts, and open my mouth, he speaks.

"Why did you  _ever_ tolerate me?" he asks, almost whispers, impossibly bright blue eyes staring at me with some expression that feels guarded, restrained. I don't know what it is and I don't like it on Dick's face. I kind of  _miss_ his normal psycho attitude. "If you never liked the pain, then why? You don't  _fake_ that kind of enjoyment, there  _has_ to have been something."

My breath stutters just a second at the thoughts in my head, the  _images_ and  _feelings_ , and I know Dick can see it because his mouth flickers in a sharp smile. "It was about the power," I admit, after a moment. "I…" I can't hold Dick's gaze. "I didn't like  _how_ you did it, but I liked being just… for you. And Bruce. I liked being—"

" _Owned_ ," Dick finishes for me, and my gaze snaps back up as he gives a short laugh. His mouth is curled into a smirk, and there's a light back in his eyes that almost makes me wary. "It's about being  _controlled_ , isn't it, Jason?" I swallow, thickly, and Dick pushes his way firmly between my thighs, not cautious this time, and raises his left leg to brace his knee to one side of my hips, on the couch. " _Oh,_ little wing," he purrs, and he does  _not_ look vulnerable anymore. My hand falls away from his face, to his thigh.

"Dick—" I try to start, not sure what was actually going to come after his name, and then one of his hands is at my throat. Wrapped around and just holding, not near tight enough to stop me breathing, but it's enough to cut me off.

He tilts my jaw up with his grip, easing my head back and pressing closer, watching me react with the same smirk. "It's about the  _surrender_ ," he says softly, leaning down to brush his lips over mine, to kiss me softly,  _gently_ in a way he never is. It's chaste. " _That's_ why you took so much pain from me," he says, into the air between our mouths. "You  _liked_ that I did whatever I wanted to you, you just didn't like what it was."

His hand tightens a little bit, enough to make my breath catch, and then he slowly, but firmly, pins me back against the couch by my throat. I suck in a sharp breath, my hand clenching down on his thigh, and close my eyes. Dick's other hand — he must have set the mask aside somewhere — touches my chest, and he makes a small, pleased sound.

"Look at me, Jason," he demands, and I open my eyes without thinking about it. My breathing isn't real even, and I'm sure my pulse is pounding underneath the hand on my throat, but there's not much I can do about that. "I can  _do_ that," he promises, when I meet his gaze, and his smirk softens to a smile. "When we've got time, we'll talk details. Sound good?" I nod, as much as I can with his hand still holding me down, and he tilts his head and gives me a look that's straight out  _devious_. "You know by admitting this you're offering Bruce free reign, right?"

Oh,  _hell_. I… "I don't know if that scares the fuck out of me or if it's just really hot to think about."

Dick laughs, hand dropping away from my chest, and then I inhale sharply and grit my teeth together when it palms over my crotch. " _This_ says the second," he purrs, fingers kneading inwards. I buck up into him before I can control myself, and he makes a pleased noise and lets his fingers slide away from my throat. I  _do_ control myself before I say something stupid, like ' _please_ ', to get the grip back. His fingers slide down my chest, and his gaze drops briefly down to follow them. "Once we talk details, I'm looking forward to watching him top you, little wing. I've always liked you on your knees."

"This is mean," I manage to say, and he flashes me a wicked smirk.

"Is it?" He sounds innocent, but it's totally disproved by the smirk and the heat in his eyes.

"We haven't got time; the meeting—"

"There's time," he murmurs, and then pushes back and away from me, pulling back his hands and straightening up to stand between my legs again. He glances along the couch, almost thoughtfully, and then leans down and braces one hand on the couch beside my head. "No one else has fucked you since Bruce and me, not literally, but have you played alone, Jason?"

"No," I answer, and there's a flash of what I think is pride, but is definitely  _pleased_.

"Not once?" he presses, voice soft and sinful. "You never took some toy, worked yourself open, imagined that it was one of us fucking you instead?"

"No," I repeat, shakier, and this time he makes a low,  _satisfied_ noise that makes me shudder.

"No  _wonder_ you're wound so tight, little wing." His gaze rakes down my frame, lingering lower, and the noise that comes out of his mouth is demanding  _desire_. "I  _want_ to fuck you," he says, in that same almost-a-whisper purr, "but I'll save it for later. For now, you're going to do  _exactly_ what I tell you to, understand me?" I nod, and he clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "Verbal answers, Jason. Try again."

"I understand," I manage to say fairly steadily, and he smiles.

" _Good_." His free hand traces down my throat, knuckles pressing briefly into my trachea before it leaves my skin. "I'm going to lie down on this couch, little wing, and you're going to lie back against my chest, between my legs, and you're going to make yourself come, for  _me_." Jesus  _fuck_. "Clear?"

"Clear." It comes out a whisper, a breath of noise that's all I can summon, and he touches my cheek briefly before pulling away.

"Stand," he orders, stepping away, and I do it as he pulls his mask from a hidden pocket in his suit and presses it back into place over his eyes, the bridge of his nose. I swallow as he slips around me, brushing against my arm, and watch as he lies back against the couch, his shoulders against the arm and his legs spread wide. "Lie down, little wing," he says in a voice that is sharp  _command_. "Head at my shoulder."

I take in a shaking breath, all thought of limits and future talks pushed aside to make way for heat, and obey. I lie down, my back to his chest and my hips between his thighs, and fit my head at his left shoulder, against the arm of the couch and beside his head. I'm just a little taller than him, so my shoulders are almost as high as his even if I'm an inch or so down.

He's warm and solid at my back, even through our clothes, and the touch of his right hand slipping beneath my jacket and my shirt to touch the skin at my side — what isn't covered by armor padding — is soft. He makes a quiet noise in my ear, breath warm against it, and my hands clench for a second in restraint. I don't even know what I would do, but not finding out right now is probably a good thing.

"Give me a show, Jason," he purrs, left hand coming up to brush through my hair. "Go on."

I drag in a breath, tilting my head into his hand and away from his mouth, and bring my hands together to unbuckle the glove on my left one. I can feel the rush of air against my jaw, my neck, and the idle, soft stroke of his hands at my side and in the hair above my ear. I tug the glove off my hand and let it fall to the side, then lower both hands to my belt and jeans. The metal of the clasp and hook is cold against my bare hand, but it's Dick's hand tugging faintly at my hair, pulling my head farther sideways, that makes me shiver; not the cold.

I get my jeans open far enough to push them down my thighs, along with the boxers underneath, and take in a breath through my teeth at the cool air. I wrap my bare hand around myself, letting the other rest at my hip, and arch just a little at the touch.

Dick's right about a lot of things, but he's  _especially_ right that yes, I'm wound seriously tight at the moment. Before I went back to Gotham it wasn't as bad — it was still  _bad_ , just not  _this_ bad — but after the last week, where I fought every bit of reawakened desire until I couldn't stand it anymore and only ever  _then_ gave in, I'm pretty much a mess. Frustration,  _want_ , and a whole lot of repressed desire that Dick's tapping into as easily as he always has.  _This_ was why I wasn't going to let him touch me before we'd settled things one way or another.

This is good enough, for now.

I let the breath out, easing into the touch and closing my eyes. He gives a quiet laugh, mouth brushing against the side of my face, at my temple. I clench my free hand against the junction of my hip and thigh, and fall into a rhythm of stroking that feels as natural as it always has. Dick makes a pleased sound in my ear, and I can feel the beat of his heart against my back, feel it speed up just a little bit. The hand on my side slides down, finding the clench of my fist and easing it open, interlacing his gloved fingers with mine. I tilt my head back, into his shoulder, and I swear the noise he makes is a croon.

"If you insist, little wing," he says in a murmur, and I get about a second of wondering what he's about to do, what he thinks I  _invited_ , before it happens.

His hand leaves my hair and loops lower, under the curve of my jaw and wrapping long fingers around my throat, pressing up and back and keeping my throat arched,  _bared_. My breath catches, my hand clenches down around his, and my other hand falters in its rhythm for a second. The grip isn't the lighter touch of before, it's  _hard_. Not enough to bruise, or to hurt, or to really make it hard to breathe, but it's a  _hold_ , not just the touch that it was.

"I—" He makes a shushing noise and tightens his fingers just a little bit, cutting me off.

" _Easy_ , Jason. Keep going." The hand interlaced with mine slides away, out of my grip and back to curl around my wrist, and pins my hand down against my hip. I swallow in a burst of arousal, and then a low noise of  _want_ drags itself out of my chest at the feeling of my throat working against the unyielding press of his hand. That's—  _fuck_.

He smiles against my temple, and forces my head a little farther back, a little harder against his shoulder. I can feel the press of his thighs against the outside of my hips, his legs caging me in and the flex of muscle underneath his suit. The thought of his eyes trained down, along the line of my throat and to the wrap of my hand around myself, is enough to make me shudder.

"What do you think of when you do this, little wing?" he whispers into my ear, thumb stroking over my wrist where he has it pinned down. "How about I take a  _guess?_ " He makes a noise of thought, and I can feel his mouth lower down to my ear, teeth grazing but not biting. It makes me wary for a second, but the wet heat of his lips only has the faintest edge to it. He's not pressing.

"When you're in a bed, or the shower, and you wrap that hand around your cock and stroke, what do you  _imagine?_ " I grit my teeth together at just the thought, at the memories of my own fantasies over the years; all the things I  _wanted_ that I didn't think I'd ever get, and  _really_ didn't have the nerve to ask for. " _I_ like the thought of tying your hands behind your back, holding your head against my thigh and pinning you down while Bruce fucks you." I take in a sharp breath, and he makes a satisfied noise against my skin, I can  _feel_ the grin his mouth curves into. "Tied up nice and pretty, just for  _us_."

"Or taking you on patrol with us, leaving you in the car while we worked." That doesn't— "A  _reward_  for every time we come back; all open and ready for one of us to slide inside you, or between your lips." I  _choke_ just a little bit, and  _fuck_ imagining things like that is just  _not_ the same as having Dick whisper it in my ear like a lover, like a  _promise_. "And you'd get your part too of course, when we're  _satisfied_. If you asked  _nicely_ enough." I can feel the roll of his hips up against my back, and not only was I already wound tight but this is  _so_ much more than I thought I was going to get. This is probably going to be pitifully short.

"You'd be so  _good_ for us wouldn't you, Jason?" he asks,  _purrs_ , in my ear. "It would be so  _hard_ to wait, but you would. You'd wait for us to come back, and you'd let us pull you out and bend you over the hood of the car to fuck you. You'd  _love it_." The accusation, promise,  _thing_ , drives a shaking moan out of my throat. Dick's thighs press in against my hips, with  _all_ that strength that comes from his acrobatic skill, and he gives a breathy  _laugh_. "You'd be loud, so lost in it, we'd have to gag you. Take it out when we're done so you could beg,  _plead_  for us to let you come too. Flushed and  _desperate_ but you'd  _never_ touch yourself without our permission, would you?" I only try and breathe, past the thoughts and the  _desire_ burning bright, and his hand tightens for just a second until I legitimately  _can't_ breathe. It loosens again the next moment, and Dick hisses, " _Answer me_ ," in my ear.

" _No_ ," I gasp, and strangle back the cry that wants to leave my throat. He  _smiles_ against my skin.

"Which is  _just_ why we'd let you come, at  _our_ hands. Still over the hood." He gives a low,  _dangerous_ laugh, rolling his hips up against me a second time while I shudder, my teeth gritting together again. "But you know  _Bruce_ , and how much he  _loves_ that car. He'd hold you down on your knees, make you clean up your mess. Make you do it with your tongue just to  _watch_."

" _Fuck_ , Dick!" It's too close,  _I'm_ too close, and I press back against him and shake, ready to—

" _ **Stop**_ ," he snarls,  _demands_. I give a shaking cry of denial,  _pleading_ loss, but wrench my hand away from myself without even thinking about it, fisting it against the couch, against his thigh. I can't hold still, can't bring myself to, and I pull against the hold on my wrist and press up into the one on my throat, loving, hating,  _feeling_ his hand compress my trachea till I can barely breathe.  _Wanting_ it. " _Good_ , Jason, that's  _good_. Now  _ask_."

I pull myself back a bit, away from pressing up into his hand so I can breathe, so I can speak like he wants me to. " _Please_ , Dick,  _please_."

"Please,  _what?_  Be specific, Jason. I want to hear you  _say it_." His voice is a hiss, a snarl so packed with lust I don't know how he hasn't snapped yet, and I don't have the brainpower left to deny that the sound that comes out of my throat in response is a keen.

"Let me come,  _please_. God,  _please_ , Dick."

I can feel his breath catch, feel him shake a little underneath me, and his face presses tight against the side of my face, lips carefully,  _precisely_ , gentle against my cheek. His hand lets go of my wrist, and then returns a moment later to press a plastic square package into my hand. Without looking, I know the feel of it enough to identify it as a condom. For a second it confuses me, until I feel him grin and give a shaky breath against my skin. "For the mess. Come  _apart_ for me, Jason," he orders, softly.

I swallow, gritting my teeth in restraint, for just a  _little_ control. I can feel my hands shaking as I tear the small square open by touch, my head still held up and back so I couldn't see it even if I thought opening my eyes wouldn't be a  _terrible_ idea. I roll the condom down over me, with a strangled gasp, and he recaptures my wrist, holding it down against my thigh as I wrap my free, bare hand back around my cock.

I'm just a little back from the edge again, but after the first two strokes it doesn't matter anymore, and I'm right back where I was.

" _Now_ ," Dick breathes against my ear, and I'm shaking,  _shouting_ , as he holds me down and I fall off the edge. He presses tight up against me, fingers tightening probably enough to bruise, but I couldn't care less.

Coming down from the high is slow and I heave in breaths, lying loosely back against Dick as my muscles ease away from being locked. His hands loosen, then release me and stroke over my skin. I give a weak shiver, and then another when he slides his hands down and pulls the condom off my softening cock. I don't know what he does with it, my eyes are still very closed, but when his hands come back to tug my boxers and jeans back up it's gone. I let him tuck me away, redo the belt and fix me back up, without complaint.

"Turn over," he says quietly, and it takes me a few moments but I manage to pull together the strength to obey. I push up and shift sideways, opening my eyes for a few moments to properly angle myself to lie back down. I tuck my head down next to his, lying more sideways than flat down, and his arms wrap around my back and pull me in close.

It feels…  _good_. There's some part of me that's a little shell shocked, a little raw, but the quiet, warm comfort of Dick's embrace is soothing it away. It's… I… I don't want to question any of this right now, but Dick kept his word, didn't he? He didn't hurt me — except maybe at the end there a little, but I don't think that was on purpose — and he didn't push, he didn't even  _talk_ about any kind of pain.

One of his hands skims up my back, stroking up across my neck, through the hair at the base of my skull, and I lean further into him. Maybe this can really work after all. Maybe I really can have Dick, and Bruce, but still be myself and have my own life too. They might not have to be mutually exclusive.

"Enjoy yourself, little wing?" Dick asks after a little while, hand idly stroking through my hair.

" _Dumb_ question," I manage to say back at him, not lifting my head away from his touch. He laughs, and I can feel the hard press of him against my hip, but he doesn't make any kind of move towards fixing or changing that.

He all but nuzzles into the top of my head instead, and holds me just a little tighter for a moment. "I can find  _other_ people to hurt," he says quietly, "but there aren't any other ' _you_ 's, Jason, and I want  _you_. I won't do what you don't want me to,  _promise_."

I take in a deep breath, and I wrap my right arm down around his waist, leaning forward and up to press a kiss to the side of his neck, above the line of his costume. "Thanks, Dick."

He nods against my head, and then shifts just a little underneath me. I don't know exactly why, but if anything it does at least pull the press of his cock away from directly underneath my hip, which must be more comfortable for him. Especially if he's not actually going to do anything about that; more pressure against it would probably just be counterproductive.

"When you've got your breath back," he starts, with a faintly teasing air, "we should head out to where everyone else will be gathering. We'll have to wait for the meeting to start before we can grab the clone, but I don't think he'll recognize you with your helmet on." Dick snorts and shifts again, I can feel the curve of his lips against my skin. "Morons have never given any kind of hint they know who you are, anyway."

"We're really going to do this?" I ask, and he laughs.

"Oh  _yes_ ," he almost snarls, and then pulls back, sliding both hands through my hair and pulling my head up so I'm looking at him. "They  _hurt_  you, little wing, of  _course_  we're doing this. You deserve it, and you're going to  _love_  what I've got set up, it's  _perfect_."

Oh, and  _that_  feels even better. There's a  _large_  part of me that's still bitter, still angry and just plain old  _pissed_  that Ultraman and the clone, Kon-El, never got punished for what they did to me. Sure, they were amateurs at it, and I took it and could have taken  _much_  more, but the fact that they  _dared_  to touch me when I was Bruce's, when I was  _Dick's_ … That's just  _stupid_ , and finally getting the chance to fix it with my own hands is going to be absolutely fucking glorious.

I can feel my mouth curve in a grin, and I push up on my own arms, leaning down and kissing Dick. He meets me, warm and just the right mix of passion, his hands gentle in my hair. He laughs against my mouth, fingers tightening for a moment.

"We need to stop," he says, between our mouths, "or you're not getting off the couch till I've fucked you, little wing." He nudges one shoulder up against mine, pushing me away a little bit. "Come on."

I get off him, pushing up and off the couch, and he tosses me the glove I pulled off. I rebuckle it as he follows me up and presses close, hands stroking underneath my jacket and at the hem of my shirt, pinpointing the bits of my skin that can be reached without moving the armor underneath my clothing. I lean down against him, flexing my hand to make sure the glove is secured properly, and he makes a pleased sound and pulls his hands away.

"Grab your helmet, let's go."

Putting the helmet back on, as he sweeps towards the door, feels a bit like putting my back against cover and preparing for the next barrage of gunfire. It's the moment of quiet, the calm before the storm. At least this time  _I'm_ in control of what that storm hits. I'm not just reacting anymore, and waiting for the next blow to retaliate. This time I get to strike first, and I've always been a lot more comfortable on the offense than the defense.

I catch up to Dick as the door opens, and I follow him outside. He's almost got a bounce to his step; there's a variation to his stride that screams excitement to anyone who's been around long enough to know him. I can only imagine that he's looking forward to this as much as I am. Well, maybe not  _as_  much, but close. It'd probably be hard for  _anyone_  to be looking forward to this as much as me;  _I'm_  the one who died, after all.

I follow just a step behind Dick, letting him lead me out of the deeper parts of the base and up towards the front. The door he takes me to is actually just off one of the larger 'common area/blank space' areas, and he glances briefly back at me before turning the knob and slipping inside with me at his heels. I let the door fall shut behind me, taking a second to look at the people scattered around the room as Dick walks deeper in, apparently completely at ease.

I get half a sweep in across the couches, tables, and chairs before my gaze lands on Kon-El, and everyone else ceases to matter. He's leaning against a far wall, a thin sneer on his face and his arms crossed over the black t-shirt stretched across his chest. He's thicker than I am, but shorter too. I move forward, but resist the urge to head for the son of a bitch clone by shoving my hands inside my jacket pockets. I head for an unoccupied table instead, only mildly irritated by the fact that it's in the middle of the room, since the rest of the sidekicks and lower villains in the room are just about as paranoid and distrusting as I tend to be. The seats that let you see everyone else in the room are all taken, and I'd bet they've been taken pretty much since people started filing in here.

It doesn't matter. Dick — ahead of me in the room and smoothly integrated into a group of four others near a corner — will watch my back, and I don't think anyone's dumb enough to come after me in a place like this anyway. Attacking me on the streets is one thing, but in here I'm a guest of Owlman, and you do not  _fuck_  with the Owl. It's a simple rule, so it doesn't matter how many of these people — I use the term loosely — I've offended, or how many want me dead. Until I leave the base, or as long as I'm around Dick or Bruce, I'm off limits.

It's kind of a nice feeling; been awhile since I could rely on anyone but myself.

I get some interesting looks as I lean back in my chair, letting one arm rest on the table in front of me and not directly engaging with anyone else. I keep my head tilted forward, and my gaze loosely locked on Kon-El. That's the useful thing about helmets, or masks in general. If you don't make it obvious, no one can tell where you're looking from underneath it. I can study the clone without him ever knowing, and it definitely helps that he's barely even glanced at me since I walked in. His attention is much more focused on Nightingale than on the mercenary that walked in with him, and I prefer it that way.

It's everyone else that's wondering why I'm here, and they'll get their answer soon enough. Just as soon as we get confirmation that the meeting of the big bads has started, and the doors are locked. Arsenal doesn't seem to be in here, so I'd bet we haven't hit that point yet. No way Harper misses a chance to ease back and relax out from under the eyes of his mentor and the rest of the Crime Syndicate, and Roy's a social person, so he'll do that here.

Dick laughs at something one of the other people in his group says, and I watch Kon-El's jaw clench, his sneer getting a little more pronounced. So the rivalry is alive and well, no surprise there. Even past the rivalry that's  _always_  been there between Owlman and Ultraman — over Superwoman, and leadership of the Crime Syndicate — Bruce and Dick obviously never forgave either of the Ultras for what they did to me. I'm not totally sure what Kon-El's problem with us is, actually. It might just be inherited from his 'dad', or at least learned from him, or maybe I just missed whatever insult he thinks we gave him. I mean, it's totally possible we  _did_  insult him somehow, but I don't remember doing anything on purpose while I was Talon.

I don't think anyone is  _dumb_  enough not to notice the obvious tension, dislike, and maybe even hatred between the Owls and the Kryptonians. I also don't think anyone's dumb enough to get in the middle of it. Guess we'll find out.

Dick's posturing is interesting to watch. He's got his back mostly to Kon-El, talking with the group he ingratiated himself to, and it feels  _really_  purposeful. It feels like an obvious snub, and a declaration that the clone isn't worth being wary of. I guess to Dick, he's not. He's got his kryptonite, and even if Kon-El broke something first, or hurt him, he  _would_  get to that kryptonite. Even if he couldn't, Dick's got me, and he's got the protection of being Owlman's. Killing him outright, without any kind of warning, would start a straight up war. Bruce wouldn't rest until both the Kryptonians were dead, and neither would I.

All that in mind, Dick really doesn't have a reason to be concerned with Kon-El.

I hear the door open, and turn my head over my shoulder to get a look at who's coming in. A red, armored vest, darker red pants, and the curve of a bow meet my look. Well, that and the short red hair. Arsenal closes the door behind him, a grin playing across his face.

"Doors are closed, and the Syndicate is in session," he calls to the room, moving further in with careless ease. Harper really doesn't have anyone that he's got grudges against, as far as I know. Star City's archers tend to be pretty self sufficient and self contained. "So who brought the drinks? Oh  _tell_  me we've got alcohol." I share a glance with Dick, who gives the faintest of nods, before Harper leans against the table next to me and I look up at him. "Hey, Red. Made it out alive, I see." His voice is quieter this time, pitched just to me.

"Yeah," I confirm, turning in my seat to face him a bit more squarely. "Things are settled, we've got a deal."

"You like living dangerously don't you?" he says, with a teasing edge, and I give a smirk behind my helmet.

"When I can get away with it." I glance over, watching Dick make his way across the room, from the group he was at to a second group. The path just happens to take him past where Kon-El is leaning; I know Dick well enough to know he planned that.

"Well, there should be beer in the fridge, over there," Harper flicks one hand in the direction he's talking about, towards a mini-fridge that's buzzing away in the far corner, "if everyone hasn't emptied it already. You want one?"

Nice offer, but Dick is just drawing even with Kon-El. So unless I want to smash the bottle over the clone bastard's head — tempting, I admit — there's not much I'm going to be able to do with a beer. Not enough time to drink it, and I'd have to take my helmet off if I wanted to try. "No, thanks anyway."

"Well, I'm getting one," Harper says, totally unphased by my refusal. "You sure?"

Dick turns, green glowing against his black gloves as he shifts into Kon-El's personal space and lashes out, slamming him up against the wall he's leaning against by the throat. The bastard gives a choked sound of surprise and pain, both hands rising to claw at Dick's grip. If that grip didn't include the kryptonite now pressed against the skin of his neck, bleeding green into his veins and making them stand out against his paling flesh, he might have actually managed to do something. As it is, Dick ignores the comparatively feeble struggling, easily keeping him pinned.

"I've got business," I comment, in answer to Harper.

The room is pretty much still and silent — the kind of poised silence where everyone's  _ready_ to move, but hasn't — as I get to my feet, and Dick tightens his grip a bit and drags Kon-El away from the wall, towards me. I can't even  _try_ to pretend that it doesn't feel good to see the clone brought down that easily, and to see him this  _helpless_ against nothing more than a rock.

I take over when Dick stops in front of me, slipping into place beside him and taking the kryptonite when he slides it out from underneath his fingers. He lets go of Kon-El as I palm the piece of kryptonite and wrap my hand around the back of his neck, pushing him down. Letting him breathe, unlike Dick, but keeping him held down and at my mercy. Which feels  _amazing_. Resisting the urge to start beating at him now is hard, but I manage it. I can wait for privacy, and the right tools. I've been waiting a long time already; no need to rush things now.

Dick nods towards the door, as Kon-El tries to catch his breath, and I follow the silent instruction, pulling the clone with me as I head for the exit. He gives a weak snarl, and I give him a single hard shake that's more just for my own enjoyment than any real warning. If I wanted to warn him, I'd  _hurt_ him. He's stumbling more than he's walking, but some combination of whatever pride he has and the strength of my grip holds him up well enough to get him to the door.

"This is  _private business_ ," Dick says into the silence of the room, as I open the door and drag Kon-El through. "Don't get involved." It's a basic warning, but it seems to do the trick. No one tries anything, at least, and Dick follows me out and shuts the door behind us. He circles around where I've paused — he never did tell me exactly where we're taking the clone bastard — and reaches down to take Kon-El's jaw in his hand. I ease up just a little bit, letting Dick pull the clone's head up a few inches.

Dick's smirking, and his fingers are tight enough to be uncomfortable if not painful. Kon-El jerks against my grip and Dick's hold, teeth showing as he glares, and my not-brother's smirk gets just a little wider.

"Give it up, Kon," he says quietly. "We have a debt to settle with you, and your  _father_ won't be able to hear you as long as he's locked away in that meeting. We've got  _hours_ to play with, dear."

"You'll  _never_ get away with whatever the hell you're trying to do," the clone spits back at him, and Dick laughs and smiles in that 'I'm going to tear your skin off your bones' way that I've never seen anybody else even come  _close_ to imitating.

"You sound like a hero, and it's  _adorable_  that you think that's actually true. You're not  _that_ important, Kon." The twist of Dick's hand as he lets go is dismissive, flicking Kon-El's face to one side, and he straightens up and looks at me. "Come on, Red."

"Lead the way," I answer, and Dick flashes me a sharp, violent smile before turning and striding away, across the room and towards one of the corridors. He doesn't so much as glance backwards at Kon-El, and the clone starts to open his mouth before I jerk him up and around to be face to face with me. "You'll be quiet, Kryptonian," I say softly, "or I'll shove this glowing hunk of rock down your throat and watch you choke. Are we clear?"

He glares at me, but his jaw clenches down and his mouth stays shut. There's murder in his eyes — he wants to kill me with his bare hands, obviously, but I have  _so_ been there before — but I'm not worried. Dick can take the fight out of anyone, alien or not, and I know for a fact that the clone's idea of torture isn't anywhere near as refined as ours. All he could dish out was blunt pain, and he went for the kill far too quickly. He didn't appreciate the nuance and subtleties of real torture, or the art of how to  _break_ someone.

"Good," I say in response to his silence, and spin him back around to drag him the direction that Dick headed.

I'm honestly curious what he's got set up. Too much exposure to kryptonite will kill the clone bastard, and more importantly knock him unconscious long before that, so Dick must either have some other way of keeping Kon-El down, or know precisely how much exposure he can take before he needs time to recover. I'd bet the second one, but then again Bruce is in on this too. That leans things more towards the preparation side than precision. Whatever way, I trust the two of them enough not to be worried that I'll end up having to fight the Kryptonian bastard without things being even. I'm good, but humans just aren't made to go up against that kind of power without something to give us an advantage. Or at least, bring them down to our level.

I catch up to Dick after a few minutes of following him, and him waiting just long enough at a corner to make sure I see him go around it. He's standing in front of a door, with it already open and held that way by the press of one of his hands. He gives a wicked smile, and slips inside as I approach. Kon-El's a little more reliant on my grip now, a little bit closer to dead weight, but I get him down the corridor and into the room.

Dick shuts the door behind us, as it clicks and a heavy thunk announces a lock, and then brushes up against my back, his right hand sliding down my back as he leans around my shoulder. "Let him go, Red."

Alright, no explanation, but I at least trust Dick not to get me killed with some kind of stupid mistake like this. He doesn't want me dead, and he  _does_  want this son of a bitch clone in a  _lot_ of pain. His word's good enough.

I throw Kon-El forward and to the ground, keeping the kryptonite in my palm just in case, and Dick presses a kiss to the side of my throat as the clone — on his back — shudders and pants. He's getting his color back, and it only takes a few seconds before he drags himself up, glaring hatred and quickly recovering. His hands clench, muscles standing out in his arms, and he snarls at the two of us.

"I'm going to  _rip_  you apart with my bare hands,  _Owl_ ," he threatens, and I can feel Dick pull away from my back as Kon-El starts to rise into the air, eyes glowing red.

I prepare myself to dodge, however I have to, but then there's a quiet click from behind me and the whole room instantly gets painted in red light. Kon-El collapses out of the air, eyes snapping back to blue, and he lands a little off balance and one ankle slides out from under him, crashing him down to one knee. His eyes are wide, shocked, and I feel Dick come up against my back again, taking the kryptonite from my hand.

"Is that a red-sun light source?" I ask, over my shoulder, and Dick makes a viciously amused noise.

"Yeah, it is. Like it, Red? I thought you might." He sounds smug, bloodthirsty, and God help me I  _love_  it. I laugh, letting myself uncoil, letting every beaten, broken,  _furious_  bit of me come out from where I've held it down, and Dick's grin is sharp and wide against my neck. "Think about it. He's so nicely  _human_ now, isn't he? And any time he starts dying we can just," he snaps his fingers, muffled by the gloves but clear, "recharge him. Won't it be  _fun?_ "

Kon-El snarls, getting back to his feet. "My father will  _never_  let you get away with this."

"I think he will," Dick answers, and his hand slides up my arm before he pulls away. "Want to let him in on the  _best_  part, Red?"

I raise my hands, finding the catch on the bottom of my helmet with the ease of practice and closing my eyes for a second as it hisses and releases. I pull it off, discard it to the side, and look back up in time to catch the sharp flash of surprise that crosses the clone's face. He steps back, and I can't help but  _grin_.

"Recognize me, huh? Fun fact, you pathetic little clone piece of  _shit_." It feels so  _good_ to face him. To spit insults in his face and watch the anger, and to know that right now, I'm  _better_ than him. Human to human, he doesn't stand a fucking chance. "I didn't  _stay_  dead, and I don't think your precious 'father' gives enough of a damn about you that he'll start a fight with Owlman. Do  _you?_ "

Kon-El glares, but his jaw grinds down and he doesn't answer.  _Good._

Dick gives a laugh, and steps up beside me. "This is just payback, Kon. You started it, we're going to finish it. We're also going to teach you a thing or two about what  _real_ torture feels like, when we get around to it." His smile is warm but ready to be a baring of teeth, and he steps closer in and raises a hand to lightly rake through my hair as he catches my mouth in a deep kiss. He makes a pleased sound when I respond, and gives it a few seconds — punctuated by a disgusted snarl from the clone bastard — before pulling away. "He's all yours, little wing, but when you're ready to share, let me know. I want at least a few minutes."

I snort, tasting him on my tongue and swallowing it down. I have wanted this for  _so_ many years. "Like I'd let this end without giving you a chance at him," I say into the air between us. "Promise, it'll be a lot more than a few minutes." He purrs out another approving noise, kisses me again, and then lets me go and slips away and back towards the wall and what has to be a switch that controls the lights.

I focus my attention back on Kon-El, shrugging out of my jacket and tossing it aside to join my helmet on the floor. He stands his ground as I stalk towards him — stupid — and I let my mouth curve back into the same vicious grin, brushing my hand over the hilt of my knife but not drawing it, not yet.

"Let's give this another try, clone. How about you  _try_ taking me down on even terms?" I pull my hand away from the knife, holding both hands open and to the sides. "You were going to take me apart with your bare hands weren't you, you halfbreed  _bastard?_   _Try_  it."

He's not stupid enough to charge me, but he's also not well trained enough to block more than my first strike at his ankle, and my other foot takes him right in the center of the chest. He sprawls to the floor, gasping, and I flex my hands. To start with, all I really want to do is beat the  _shit_ out of him.

Yeah, this'll be  _fun_.

* * *

Dick's mouth is warm over mine, his teeth grazing across my lips and then down across the side of my face, to my neck. I'm so high on adrenaline, endorphins, on the rush of the taste of blood on and in my mouth and the feel of it soaked through my gloves, where his covered fingertips have left wet trails of it on my skin.  _God_ I could drown in how good this feels. The anger in me, all that  _pain_ that's driven my every step since death, is soothed. Not gone, but bled away like poison from a bloodstream.

I'm satisfied.

Dick's teeth drag a dark bruise to the surface of the skin on my neck, and I groan and tilt my head back, letting him. It doesn't really hurt, and it feels like celebration. This all feels like victory. His hands are hard on my upper arms, and I can feel the flex of his fingers as he laughs against my skin and shivers, riding just as high as I am.

" _Please_ ," comes the ragged whisper from beneath us, and Dick shudders in pleasure even as I flick my eyes back open and lower my head to look down.

My gaze falls to Kon-El, half on his stomach with one blue eye, half-lidded, staring upwards in fear, exhaustion, and pain. I take a second to admire Dick's handiwork — the patchwork of bruises, burns, and lacerations littered across the clone's skin — and then Dick shifts to one side and I step forward and stomp down on Kon-El's broken wrist, grinding my heel into the joint as he  _screams_. It only lasts for a second — Dick made sure that he screamed enough before this to ruin his vocal chords for a few days, at least — but it still brings a smirk to my lips.

"You don't learn, do you, Kon?" Dick asks, mocking and with a bright smile. "You know for just a second there we actually didn't care about you still being around, but then you had to go begging again."

"As if you don't like begging," I say with a snort, and Dick flexes his hands around my arms and purrs, body lined up against my side and it feels  _amazing_.

"I like  _your_ begging better, little wing," he murmurs. "Comparing anyone else to you is like comparing beer to hard alcohol. Good for a taste, but pointless if I want to actually get anything out of it."

I pause, then twist and pull back a little to get a look at his face. "Did you just compare my begging to getting drunk?" I ask, consciously ignoring, but  _really_  enjoying, the small whimpering noises Kon-El is making in response to my heel still pressing down against his wrist.

Dick lets go of my arms to trail his fingers down them instead, smiling. "Yeah, I did. What? Don't think that's accurate?" Before I have a chance to even  _think_ about answering that, there's a sharp beep that rings out from Dick's left wrist, and he stills for a second before making a softly disappointed noise. "That would be O's alarm. Meeting's drawing to a close; we've got about ten minutes. Make it five so we've got time to be there when the doors open."

"Five minutes, huh?" I smirk, he smiles, and I pull my foot off of Kon-El's wrist. "Let's make them count."

By the time those minutes are up I've got a new coating of blood soaking through my gloves, Kon-El is unconscious, and Dick is nearly vibrating with endorphins and joy. It's definitely a hell of a sight, and he's restraining himself but I can see the desire in the way he stands, the way his gaze lingers, and  _feel_ it at the back of every brush against the outside of the jacket I slipped back into. Not the helmet, though. That's part of this; Ultraman, Clark, has to  _know_ who I am to make the message stick.

We leave Kon-El under the red sunlight, and the corridors are deserted on the way back to the large common room. Dick stalls me there, to one side and near a large, but short, open corridor with a single double door at the end of it that I know leads to the Syndicate's meeting room. We're just a bit out of the direct line of sight down the corridor, so unless some x-ray vision happens no one's going to see us until they're nearly on top of us. Must be planned. I can't wait for the confrontation.

As it turns out, I don't have to. It's barely a minute before I can hear the doors shift open, and the thuds and clicks of footsteps that are way too loud to be Bruce's. There's an argument happening — by the voices it's Super Woman, Diana, and Sea King, Arthur — but it sounds petty and I don't pay much attention to it after the first few words. Dick presses close to my side for a second, and then pulls a bit away to stand tall on his own as the first of the Syndicate comes into view.

Diana and Arthur are in front, glaring at each other, but Bruce is a step behind them and he slips to the side when he spots us. Clark is barely a second after, and he doesn't look happy but being eternally pissed off looking is kind of his own special thing. The sight of him does freeze me for a moment, but the reminder that I'm covered in his clone's blood is enough to make me confident again. I'm no one's victim, and maybe I can't touch this Kryptonian bastard directly but I just made his 'son'  _bleed_ and  _beg_ and that's more than enough for me.

His head turns, glances at us, and I see his nostrils flare just a bit in disgust, before he really  _looks_  at me and he stops in his tracks. Behind him, Quick, J'onn, and Hal have to come to a sudden halt as well, and whatever they were going to do stops when they follow Ultraman's gaze to the two of us.

"What the hell have you done?" he snarls, red sparking in his eyes as he takes a step towards us, and I let myself stand steady with Dick's presence at my elbow.

Bruce turns, steps firmly in the line of sight between us and Clark, and I can't see his face but his voice is low and threatening. "Followed  _my_ orders. You remember what we were just discussing, don't you, Ultraman?"

The rest of the Syndicate has stopped to watch — miss a face off between Owlman and Ultraman? No way — and even Diana and Arthur's argument has been delayed, or forgotten, in the face of the tension and the threat of violence from both sides. I haven't been around the whole group of them much, but I've got this sneaking suspicion that the rest of them are just  _waiting_ for the day Bruce and Clark actually get into it and one of them ends up dead. I know better. If Bruce ever thought Clark was going to try killing him then he'd assassinate him, not give him a chance to fight.

The emotion that flicks across Ultraman's face is interesting — rage, worry, and a whole lot of disbelief — but his eyes do stop sparking red, and he doesn't take another step towards us. "You went after my  _son?_ "

"Clone," Bruce corrects idly. "I think this makes us even, in fact I even did you a favor. Boys," his head tilts a bit, aiming his words over his shoulder at us, "Kon-El is still breathing, isn't he?"

Dick doesn't immediately answer, glances at me instead, so I take the lead. "Yeah, he's alive. Shove him under a UV lamp and he probably won't even end up with scars." Kryptonians heal well, after all. Yeah, it'll probably take a while for the clone bastard to recover on a more mental level, and I'd lay odds he never mouths off or even  _looks_  funny at Dick or me again, but technically he won't have scars so long as he gets the sunlight he needs.

Ultraman's fists clench, and I can hear the smirk in Bruce's voice. "See? Yours is still alive now that I'm through with him. Even, like I said." I can see the change in Bruce's stance, the slight draw of his shoulders and lowering of his head to make him look more threatening, and the next words that come out of his mouth are a low hiss. " _Touch_ one of my Talons again, Kal-El, former or current, and there won't be an army or a planet that will stop me from taking you apart. That's a promise, not a threat. We're done here."

Ultraman looks sickened,  _furious_ , but he stays stock still as Bruce turns away and strides towards the open arch leading to the garage. Dick nudges me to follow him, and with a last glance at Clark for the sake of paranoia I do. It's a weird mixture of uncomfortable wariness having the Kryptonian at my back, and a fierce enjoyment of the fact that I  _can_ have him at my back and not  _have_ to worry about it. Maybe I'm not a threat to him, but Bruce? Oh, there's no one in the Crime Syndicate dumb enough to go up against my ex-mentor, not even the muscle-for-brains alien glaring at our backs.

This is closer to business than anything else.

I'd bet, though I can't be sure, that Bruce sold leaving me alive after my betrayal as a case of usefulness. After this show, the rest of them will be convinced that the only thing I needed to be loyal to him was mutual reward, and getting to take the clone apart would be  _more_ than enough. So I'm off the hook, Bruce gets to take Ultraman down a few notches and ensure that he doesn't mess with us again, and officially I'm considered to at least partly work for him. I can live with that.

It might take a few months, when word of this gets out because of course it  _will_ , for me to reestablish myself as a mercenary for hire, and I might have to be a little more selective about what jobs I take after this, but that's no big deal. After what I just pulled for Slade, making sure people know I'm not bound by affiliation won't be a big deal. I can sell it to my contacts, if any complain, as a deal I made. I wanted Kon-El on a platter, and in return I agreed not to go directly against Owlman in the future, and remain open to making deals with him. That's an easy story to make people believe.

It's not even that far from the truth.

Bruce keys open the jet's door — one of the larger ones, built to carry more than just one or two people — and slips inside when the ramp comes down. His metal boots tap softly against the equally metal floor, but it's a noise most people wouldn't even notice or consider anything of. I follow him up, and Dick is just a step behind me. Bruce takes the command seat at the front, tapping in commands as the ramp rises behind us and Dick presses warm against my back and takes the helmet from under my arm, setting it aside. The side of the mountain slides open, and from here I can see Bruce activate the shielding on the outside of the jet — that shimmers it out of sight — and turn on the autopilot for a route back to Gotham.

The acceleration is noticeable, but Dick distracts me by pulling me back to lean against the wall, hands intertwining with mine and pulling them back a bit so it almost feels like a hold, not just a touch. I close my eyes, leaning back against him and weathering the acceleration of the jet until it evens out again, and Dick squeezes my hands and lets go of them to wrap his fingers around my wrists instead. I flick my eyes back open, behind the domino mask that I'm still wearing, and my mouth goes a little dry at the sight of Bruce moving towards the two of us.

He pauses in front of us, studying me I'm sure, even though I can't see the path his gaze takes behind his mask, and then reaches forward and hooks a careful clawed fingertip under the edge of it. It stings a bit coming off — ideally, you're really supposed to get the glue holding it on wet and ease it off, not just pull — but it's really nothing to me, and Bruce tucks it inside the outer right pocket of my jacket.

"So, the two of you worked things out?" he asks, softly and what I can recognize as forcibly distant. Oh, right, of course. Last he saw of either of us we were pretty much at each other's throats. Of course.

I nod, and I can feel Dick echo it against my shoulder. "Yeah," I tell him, swallowing thickly. "We did."

Bruce nods, and his mouth is still flat and guarded. "You made demands, didn't you, Jason? Tell me."

I hesitate, and Dick tightens his grip on my wrists and presses his lips to the side of my throat and takes over. "Listen to him, treat him like an equal, and respect that he's got a life outside of the two of us and he's not giving it up." Dick gives a soft laugh as I stay still, stuck between the white lenses of Bruce's mask and the  _surprise_  that Dick actually remembers what I wanted from him. He's actually serious about all of this. That's… "And our little wing doesn't like pain, and doesn't want us hurting him without his permission."

Bruce's mouth tilts the tiniest bit upwards at one corner, and the relief that crashes into my chest is sudden and sharp. I didn't realize how much I  _needed_ Bruce to be okay with this until I wasn't sure he was going to be. He takes a small step towards me and leans in, giving me the time to pull away — but I have never wanted to do something  _less_  in my life — before he kisses me. Soft, with just the shallowest suggestion of a tongue and feeling more like a confirmation of Dick's words than any kind of passion.

"Of  _course_ , Jason," he agrees, quietly. I watch, a little stunned but then with  _serious_  interest, as he shares a second kiss over my shoulder with Dick.

"You know what he  _does_ like though?" Dick purrs, when their mouths separate, and Bruce tilts his head a bit so he could be looking at either of us behind his mask.

"Do share."

His voice is low, and his lips are now firmly in a smirk, even if it's small, and oh  _fuck_ Dick is about to share what he figured out and exploited earlier. I don't know if I'm anywhere near ready to have Bruce know that; I don't know if I'll  _ever_  really be ready for that.

Dick's hands flex around my wrists, pulling them a bit further behind my back. Still not quite a pin, or a hold, and I could definitely get out of it, but it feels like one. "He likes being  _owned_ ," Dick says in a voice just  _made_ of sin, and I stay very still and breathe shallowly as Bruce pulls back a few inches, and his head tilts to make the drag of his gaze up and down my frame obvious.

"Is that right?" he asks, and  _there's_  the widening of his smirk to make it feel dangerous, the slight shift in his stance that means confidence. "Well, that opens up a whole new set of games, doesn't it, Jason?" I swallow, and he reaches forward to trace his clawed fingertips down my chest, to a slice of skin that he reaches by slipping them beneath the hem of my shirt, and  _fuck_ I might have just a bit of a kink for those gauntlets. Maybe. "You're familiar with the concept of safe words?" he demands, voice suddenly sharper, and I nod. "For now we can use the traffic light system, until we find something better, if we do.  _Use_ the words, Jason, we'll  _both_  respect them."

"I will," I promise. Yeah, I'm really done with taking things I don't want to. No worries about me not calling a halt to things if it starts to happen again.

His hand draws back, and there's a bit of blood on his claws but I know it's not mine and has to be Kon-El's. "Well, I have a jet to fly." He leans in towards me, on the opposite side of my neck from Dick, and speaks quietly into my ear. "Why don't you give me a show, Jason?" My mind flashes through about a dozen possibilities, each a little more farfetched and equally  _hot_ , before he continues. "You haven't really used your mouth much since you came on board, and we  _both_ know how torture affects Dick." He pulls away as I draw in a sharp breath and Dick shudders behind me, and whirls around to stride back towards the front of the jet. "Where I can see it, boys," he commands, as he takes his seat.

My heart rate is elevated, and desire is making me think a whole lot slower than I should be, but I do manage to focus on exactly what Bruce wants from the two of us. Specifically, me sucking off Dick, where he can see us both. Putting on a show.

Dick lets go of my wrists, but stays pressed up against my back as he whispers, "You know, the jet's on autopilot. He doesn't  _really_  need to do anything." With that — one of Dick's ways of saying 'follow my lead' — he slips out from behind me and towards the back of the jet, just a few steps to our right. I watch as his arms reach behind himself, hooking on the zipper for his costume, at the back of his neck, and pulling it down with one hand, and then the other.

I stare at the line of revealed skin, speechless mostly because I  _really_ don't want to interrupt the moment or what he's doing, as he removes each glove individually, hooking them into the belt around his waist as he slides smoothly out of the upper part of his suit. When he reaches down and retrieves his gloves to tug them back on, the fabric clinging smoothly nearly all the way up to his elbows, I bite my tongue not to say anything or make a noise. The belt comes off next, and I glance briefly over at Bruce to see if he's actually paying attention before deciding it  _so_ doesn't matter. I'm not missing the chance to watch Dick strip out of his suit, not even to make sure Bruce is watching too.

He leans over to undo his boots, toeing out of them, and then straightens up a bit to catch the suit at his waist and slowly slide it down off his ass. He's got black briefs on underneath — not even Dick would go commando in a suit like that, it's just  _not_  comfortable — but they're  _tight,_  clinging just perfectly and really showing more than they hide. He lifts one leg at a time, pulling the suit off each of his legs, and then straightens up and stretches his arms over his head, torso bending to one side. If my mouth wasn't dry before, it is now.

Dick turns, his smile wide and knowing. I don't have to see his eyes to know that he's turned on — that'll partly be the exhibitionism, but mostly that he's a serious sadist and torture always revs him up — and not just because of the more obvious bulge in his briefs, but how he moves, the way he stalks closer to me and reaches out to touch my cheek and holy  _fuck_ his gloves are still wet with blood. He smirks, then beckons me with a couple of fingers as he turns and moves across the jet.

I jerk myself into movement, a little stiff and a  _lot_ distracted, but it's enough to actually get me across the jet. Dick slides around Bruce's command chair, smoothly settling himself in Bruce's lap and spreading out. I loop around as he stretches, right arm rising to loop around the back of Bruce's neck, and it's a special kind of thrill watching the fingers of his gloves paint bloody trails across the metal of Bruce's suit.

I get what Dick wants from me, and it's more than enough to start me on the path to being hard. It'll happen, I'm sure.

I sink to my knees between both of their spread legs, and raise my hands to the band of Dick's briefs. Bruce might be looking at us, but his head isn't tilted down towards me and his mouth isn't betraying any emotion, so it's hard to say. No, actually, it's not. He'd never miss a show like this.

I tug Dick's briefs down, freeing him, and fighting back a shudder when his right leg rises and presses in against my side. My gloves are still wet as well, so when I drag my hands down his thighs I leave bloody streaks that really  _shouldn't_  be attractive, but really  _are_. Bruce's mouth quirks on one side, so he  _is_ watching, and I lean forward to press my mouth against the side of Dick's cock. The muscles of his thighs flex underneath my hands as he gives a small, pleased sound.

"Good enough view for you?" Dick mocks, and Bruce's mouth flicks upwards for a second in a bit more of an obvious smirk.

"It's not bad," he says softly, right hand staying still against the arm of the chair as his left rises, briefly touching the side of my head and raking back through my hair. Not nearly enough force to scratch, not even with the claws at the end of his gauntlet.

I rise to the implication, shifting to lick a path up the side of him and then draw the head of him into my mouth. He makes another quiet noise, and then a sharper one as I take more of him into my mouth. I keep my eyes focused upwards, watching the way his chest rises as he breathes, the fluctuations of muscle that will tell me how good a job I'm doing and what, precisely,  _really_  works. It's been a long time since I've had Dick in my mouth — yes, puns intended, laughter here and all that — and I don't honestly remember exactly what makes him tick anymore. I learn fast though, I always did.

He tastes good on my tongue, and I take a glance at Bruce, who's shifted to  _obviously_  be looking down at me, to check his reaction, before squeezing Dick's thighs and trying a few of my older tricks. I don't involve my hands, even though I want to, because while Dick might appreciate the bloody tracks on his skin, or painting bloody tracks on Bruce's metal suit, I don't think he'd appreciate it as much when it's down here. After all, that's a hell of a cleanup job and Bruce doesn't appreciate blood as much as the two of us tend to.

He'd definitely make Dick shower or at least take a serious rinse before letting him into a bed. I might have some blood on my face, but not the concentration that's on my hands. If any transfers it'll be minimal.

He's probably still going to make the two of us take a shower before he lets us near his bed. Honestly, remembering the  _last_  time the three of us were in a shower, that doesn't even feel like an inconvenience.

_Both_ of my lovers — is that even the right word? — naked, hot, and wet, and this time I actually get to watch, touch, and enjoy it?  _Fuck_  yes I'm down for that.

Bruce's hand tightens, clenching down in my hair instead of just touching, and I raise my gaze up to the white lenses of his helmet. He holds it for a moment, holds  _me_ , as I stay still and Dick makes a noise somewhere between aggravation and a plea, and then slowly, steadily, pulls me closer and farther onto Dick. I close my eyes, relaxing and letting Bruce pull me down the length of Dick's cock until it presses in at the back of my throat and my lips and nose brush against the patch of shorter, more wiry hairs at the base. The noise Dick makes, high-pitched and wanting, makes the very slight discomfort totally worth it.

I breathe through my nose, and Bruce's gauntleted hand releases its grip for a second, sliding back to get a better one that's at the back of my skull instead. I follow the pull of it to bring me mostly off Dick, and then the push that slides me back down. My hands flex on Dick's thighs, but I force myself to stay relaxed as Bruce sets the pace between the three of us. Fucking my mouth, with Dick's cock.

It's not as easy as I remember, but I haven't done this in a long time and I'm out of practice. There's a time or two that Dick shifts or arches against the way my hands are holding him down, and it makes my throat clench at the change I wasn't ready for, but I force my way through it. Bruce doesn't stop, only gets faster, because he knows I can handle it, and I don't fight him.

Dick's weight in my mouth is satisfying, feels  _good_ , and the slight rake of Bruce's clawed gauntlet against my scalp is intensifying my belief that I might have a serious kink for them. Or just gauntlets and gloves in general I guess; Dick's elbow-length ones are hot as  _hell_.

Dick's thighs tremble under my hands, he makes a sound that I'd definitely call a  _keen_ , and Bruce follows it up with a low murmur of approval that — god, I'm just  _fucked_ in the head — affects me  _way_ more. I fight back a shiver, but can't help opening my eyes and flicking my gaze up. Bruce's head is lowered, his mouth and teeth at Dick's neck, and my not-brother's head is arched back, baring his skin. I watch him visibly shudder and then my focus narrows to the jut of his Adam's apple as he swallows and his mouth parts.

God, I don't know if it will happen tonight — today? — but I  _want_ Dick. I want to fuck him, nearly as badly as I want the two of them to fuck  _me_ , because I  _remember_ what all of that feels like.

I remember the way that Dick looks with his wrists bound above his head, arching and crying out with his thighs tight around my waist, and I remember the way it feels to be caught between the two of them. I remember how it feels to be pinned down and fucked by either of them, or both, and I remember how amazingly, unbelievably,  _hot_  it is to watch the two of them together. I can't  _wait_.

Dick shakes again, and it feels too fast for him to be so close until I actually take a second to remember that  _I_  might have gotten off earlier, but he didn't. Take him right from our playing in the side room, into torturing that clone bastard, and this makes  _way_ more sense. Dick's been wound tight for a while, this is just a last push for him.

Bruce obviously recognizes it too, and jerks me down on him a little harder, until I'm forced to close my eyes again and concentrate on staying loose and relaxed. Dick surges hard up against my hands — I manage to hold him down — and cries out, his voice high and breathless, almost  _laughing_. Bruce drags me deep as Dick spills and holds me there, and it's been a long time but I manage to remember how to swallow, repeatedly, without choking from the feeling. I can taste it at the back of my mouth, faintly, but the angle actually aims most of it down my throat to start with, missing almost all of my taste buds. Not that I mind what little of the taste does get on my tongue.

Bruce's hand smooths out, stroking across my scalp almost idly as I finish swallowing, and Dick's thighs relax. I slowly pull back, letting Dick fall from between my lips, and he twitches but doesn't make any kind of protesting sound. I open my eyes, looking up, and Bruce's hand leaves my hair and slides forward, slipping across the side of my face to lightly grip my jaw. It isn't hard, but the way he pulls my chin upward is an obvious command and I obey, rising to a high kneel and meeting Bruce as he leans down.

He's moving slowly, deliberately, and the kiss isn't much different. It's a press of lips at first, for a moment, and then his hand lets go of my jaw and switches to grip the back of my neck to hold me up. He squeezes briefly down on my neck, and pushes his tongue into my mouth. My hands clench on Dick's thighs, losing the fight as a thick shudder drags down my spine, Bruce's tongue rolling and thrusting in mimicry that makes me wish for a bed or just,  _god_ , the closest thing to get slammed down onto and bent over.

I make a thick noise in the back of my throat, Bruce makes a rumbling sound that pulls another shudder out of me because I  _know_ that noise, and his hand tightens on the back of my neck. He pulls me forward, pressing Dick tight between us as he shifts to curl his fingers in the hair at the base of my skull and  _pull_ , arching my throat. I'm pretty sure I whimper in response, but if I do it's lost inside Bruce's mouth. At least to my ears.

I can feel Dick move, somehow getting out from between us without forcing Bruce to let go of me. I honestly don't know how, and I don't have the spare attention to care. Not when it gives Bruce the freedom to move and drag me closer to him, and I can reach in and run my hands up the metal suit covering his sides.

Bruce yanks,  _hard_ , at my hair, breaking the kiss, and then his other hand is at my throat. I should freak out at the dig of his clawed fingertips into my skin, or the sudden violence, but all it does is shorten my breath and make me gasp out something like a groan. Bruce's breath is hot on my lips, he's barely an inch away from me, and he makes a low noise that sounds amused but vaguely displeased.

Before I can be more than automatically worried at that noise, he leans in — I can feel the metal of his helmet brush my cheek — and murmurs into my ear, "I don't recall giving you permission to  _touch_ , Jason."

I swear to god I stop breathing for a second. I arch up against him completely out of my control, and then my breath comes back and I make a noise that's too high-pitched to be a moan, my hands flexing and maybe it's stupid or just some reckless, challenging part of me but I don't pull them away from Bruce's sides. He gives a low, dangerous, laugh and pulls a little harder on my hair, tightens his hand a bit around my throat.

"Hands behind your back,  _now_."

That time I snap to obey, drawing my arms behind myself and clasping my right hand around the other wrist, holding them at my low back. It feels natural, and with Bruce's hand at my throat it also feels  _really_ arousing in a way I can't really explain. But god, it's  _good_.

"Good boy," Bruce murmurs, the hand in my hair loosening but his other pressing harder for just a second, and I don't know how he knows it will — because he  _has_ to know — but it's enough to drive something like another moan from my throat.

My eyes are still closed, and I keep them that way as Bruce's hand leaves my neck, and then there's the rattle of something metal in front of me, beside me, behind me. Hands sweep down my arms, must be Dick's, and cool metal clicks around each of my wrists in turn. I shudder, and there's something in the physical proof of submission, vulnerability, that tightens up my chest for a second before I ease into it. I relax into Bruce's grip in my hair, the leftover brush of Dick's gloved fingertips against the skin of my wrists, Bruce makes another soft noise of approval, and I can feel Dick press briefly up against my back before pulling away.

"I have plans for what to do to you, Jason," Bruce says quietly, "but it's still a ways back to the Roost." His mouth presses against the side of my throat, teeth dragging over my skin for several long moments, sucking to break blood vessels and make it bruise. I shiver, but there's still no tension in me. "Until then, you'll kneel right here, quietly, and prove to me how good you can be. Do you understand?"

I swallow. "Yes," I breathe out, and he clicks his tongue.

"Yes…?"

"Yes,  _sir_ ," I correct, and the approving noise I get warms a small, locked away part of me.

Bruce's hand guides me down, pressing me to a more comfortable kneel, and bringing my head down to lie against what I'm almost sure is his hip. Covered in metal, and cool to the touch, but I don't care. I shift, settle everything, and I should be freaking out, doing  _something_ , even if it's just opening my eyes and watching, but I don't care right now. This feels too good, too  _comforting_ , to stop and let my head try and convince me that this isn't right. Why shouldn't it be?

There's no pain, there's no press to do anything I don't want to, and it feels natural to be down here below Bruce. Damn anyone who says otherwise, and  _damn_ the paranoid, furious, Pit-mad part of me that insists that this doesn't mean anything. Bruce is  _not_ going to turn on me, and neither is Dick. They're family, and they're  _mine_ as much as I'm theirs. Even if I'd chosen not to come back to this, they would have let me go. Owls don't lie to each other, there's no point.

So I relax into the touch of the warming metal against my wrists and cheek, keep my eyes closed, and let myself enjoy it. I've been through enough shit; I'm at least owed being able to enjoy small things, simple things. I'm  _allowed_  to enjoy this.

Bruce's hand stays in my hair for a while, and Dick is barefoot so he's not making enough noise for me to track whatever he's doing — I ignore the slight paranoia that brings up — but eventually grips tight for a moment before releasing me and pulling away. I can hear the sounds of him at the controls of the ship, and maybe once upon a time I could have identified what he was doing by what the specific noises were, but not anymore. It doesn't matter anyway.

I give up counting time, let myself float in a way I haven't in… Not in years, at least. maybe not ever. Bruce's hand returns briefly to my hair a few times, but otherwise there's no change.

I couldn't say how long it is, but I know that when Bruce's hand slides down and grips the back of my neck, and then there's the drag and pull of deceleration, it feels like being woken from sleep, or a trance. I turn my head a little bit further into Bruce's armor-covered leg, and wait until the force lessens and the engines of the jet fade to silence before shifting a little bit to change how my weight is distributed across my legs and into him.

His hand loosens, sliding up the back of my scalp and tugging once, briefly, at my hair as he runs his fingers through it. "Stand," he says quietly, his touch falling away, and I obey. I shift back onto my heels and tense my thighs, testing my balance before pushing up to my feet with just my legs.

There was no order to, but I'm strangely comfortable with my eyes closed so I leave them that way, my head bowed. I haven't felt comfortable only seeing darkness in a long time, and I'm in  _no_  hurry to leave it behind. Unless I get told otherwise, or I start to feel different, I'm going to stay right here in this comfortable haze.

There's the brush of metal and cloth gloves against both sides of my neck, and then what feels like one thumb hooks underneath my jaw and tilts my head up to be level. Lips press to mine, not passionate but gentle instead, chaste. When they pull back after a moment, I make a soft, pleased noise, and they brush against the corner of my mouth before retreating completely. The thumb holding my jaw up releases me, and that hand slides back to cup my skull and pull it forward, down, into what I'm almost sure is Bruce's shoulder.

"That was very good, Jason," comes Bruce's voice, in a soft murmur. "We're home now, and going to head inside and up to the manor. You'll need to open your eyes, alright?"

I shift my head in something like a nod, and slowly pull my eyes open. The grey metal isn't much of a view — except where there's a streak of drying blood across it — but it's cool to the touch, and familiar, and that's more than enough. A large part of me wants to close my eyes again and sink into it, into  _him_ , just to feel the embrace, but I take in a deeper breath and push the desire away.

As amazing and  _awesome_ as this feels, Bruce wanted me aware. The walk from the Roost's landing pad up to the manor isn't intensive, or complicated, but even if he decides to take the elevator up instead of the stairs — which we won't, because the elevator is only there in case one of us has limited mobility from an injury — it's still actually moving. I think I trust Bruce, and even Dick, enough that I could let them guide me across the cave without my sight, but that's not the point. Bruce wants my eyes open, so they'll stay open.

His hand strokes through my hair, and then slips down to wrap around my left upper arm, firm but not hard enough to hurt or for his claws to punch through the leather of my jacket. "Come on, Jason. Dick, go ahead and start the water running."

There's the whir of mechanics — I recognize it as the ramp of the jet — and then Bruce pulls me a bit away from his shoulder and leans down to kiss me again. Opening my eyes after  _that_  is hard, but I manage it. His mouth is in a very tiny, crooked, smile, and he tilts his head as he starts to move. I follow at his side, feeling the pressure of his hand around my arm but not actually being pulled by it. It's just there. I don't think I mind.

He leads me down the ramp, and I can see Dick — back in briefs but otherwise bare, with his gloves apparently stripped off at some point — ahead of us on the stairs and moving at his usual pace. Long legs, large steps; faster than a normal person's pace but not quite jogging or running. I watch him, coming back to myself a bit more at the familiar sights and sounds of the Roost, and because of the movement. I didn't know that I'd gotten a bit stiff, kneeling in front of Bruce, but walking tells me that I was and then fixes it pretty quickly.

Dick's at the top of the stairs by the time we reach them — Bruce usually moves faster than this, he must be slowing down for me — and the grip on my arm shifts as we start to climb, and Dick, at the top, unlocks the manor entrance and slips through. It shuts behind him, and I glance over at Bruce.

"You don't have to hold on," I point out, quietly. "I'm aware; I'm not gonna trip and fall or anything." Not that I want him to let go. The curl of his gauntlet around my arm is firm, feels safe, and I definitely  _could_ do just fine without it but with my hands bound it's a nice reminder that I'm not in any danger. But he probably only took that grip because he wasn't sure I was really aware, and he wasn't totally wrong. Now that I am, there's no reason for him to still be supporting me.

His head tilts enough towards me that I know he's looking at me through his peripheral vision, and then I swallow as his mouth curls into a small smirk and his hand tightens a bit. "And what if I prefer having you in hand, Jason?"

He abruptly halts, his hand twists and presses, one foot snaps out, and then I'm down on one knee in front of him. My shoulder is held down at an awkward angle from his grip, and the foot he knocked out from underneath me, to unbalance me and make me susceptible to the half of a pin, skids across a couple of stairs trying to find somewhere to brace. Adrenaline snaps me to life, and I look halfway up before his free hand is curling into my hair and yanking back, arching my throat and forcing me to crane back to meet the eyes of his mask. His teeth show for just a second — which shouldn't make me want him but it  _does_ — and I meet it for that same second, challenging him in a way that's second nature.

I've always challenged when I'm at a disadvantage. It's just who I am.

Bruce's grip in my hair softens, then slides down around my face to cup my jaw. "I think I like the  _convenience_ ," he comments, and I have barely enough time to register what he's talking about before he's dragging me back to my feet and pushing forward to continue up the stairs. Like nothing happened, except there's a charged energy to the air that I know is mostly from me.

I don't think I've said truer words than what I told Dick, what feels like days ago but can't have been more than a few hours. When he pointed out that by telling them I liked being — the word feels dark, dirty, and  _right_  — owned I was handing the keys of my life to Bruce. Bruce the control freak, the dominant, the utterly fucking convinced that you're going to do  _exactly_ what he wants just because he told you to, and  _damn_ if he isn't right.

" _I don't know if that scares the fuck out of me or if it's just really hot to think about,"_ I told him.

I still don't know.

It's not like this is really new. I mean, before I died I spent plenty of days with and under Bruce. Usually with Dick as well, but not always. I know how possessive and controlling Bruce can be, especially in the bedroom, and it's  _always_ turned me on, but this feels different.

Maybe it's just that Bruce officially knows — I don't believe that Bruce spent so much time with me and didn't  _already_ know what I wanted — that he has the freedom to own and control me like he always used to. Maybe some part of me is convinced that's going to make it different, or somehow better, or just that Bruce has always held back and now I'll get to  _really_ see what he's capable of. It shouldn't change, but it feels like it's  _going_ to.

At the least, Bruce was usually a bit more careful about shows of force like the one he just did —  _fuck_  if that didn't dry up my mouth and hit me with arousal about as subtle as a kick to the chest — but that was before the Pit, and my training at the al Ghul's hands. Now he knows what I can take, that I can  _handle_ what he can dish out. I would never fight him without a good reason, but I  _could_. I don't think I'd win, not when it came down to it, but I know I'd put up a hell of a fight.

He knows that too.

It won't happen — a part of me disagrees, but  _fuck_  that part of my mind — but the two of us aren't as far apart in skill as we used to be, and I could hold my ground. I could hurt him if I had to, maybe even kill him if I got lucky enough and — I don't even try and kid myself — it  _would_ be luck that would make the difference. I'm not the sidekick anymore, and I'm not the barely-legal teen that I was when I left. I had a lot of time as Talon, but now I'm something more, something equal to Bruce in all the ways that matter.

I really did follow in Dick's footsteps, didn't I?

Run off and take a name all my own, but eventually come back to the fold, back to  _Bruce_. Once an Owl, always an Owl, and that thought doesn't even bring bitterness or self-hatred like it used to. It's just a fact, and it could be a lot worse. Bruce and Dick are my family, they're my  _home_ , and we take care of each other. The blood on me proves that.

No matter how long it takes, we take care of each other.

Bruce pulls me to a stop in front of the manor door, waiting the moment it takes for it to click open with that faint rush of air, and then continues into the carpeted corridor. It occurs to me there's blood on my boots that might not be totally dry yet — I don't quite have the time to look back and check where I've been stepping to see if I've left footprints, and if I'm going to track it onto the carpet — but I suppress the wince at the thought of Alfred's disapproval and just let myself be guided in. Bruce's fault, not mine, and I am  _so_ throwing him under the bus if it comes to that. Alfred is not to be messed with.

I can hear the water before we even reach the door to Bruce's room — which means it's open, and so is the one to the bathroom inside; good soundproofing — and as he pushes me through the doorway first I have a weird moment where I catch his profile in the door, out of the corner of my eye, and realize how  _strange_ it is to see Bruce in full costume inside the manor. I don't think I've ever seen that before.

Almost always, he strips out of the suit down in the Roost, and those few times I remember him dragging Dick or me — or both of us — up to these rooms without that bit of ritual in between, his helmet was already gone, and usually his gauntlets and cape too. Seeing him still dressed up in the metal and reinforced fabric, among the empty wealth of the manor, is a weird mixing of the two parts of his life. Weird for me, anyway.

It's way more normal to see Dick still in costume, but half the  _point_ of Dick's costume is to draw attention and distract, so it's way less of a rush to get him out of it. I might have a thing for Bruce's gauntlets, and I'll totally admit — in my own head and  _nowhere_ else unless he asks me specifically — that the idea of me stripped down and at his feet while he's still fully Owlman is enough to make my breath catch in  _want_ , but Bruce's suit isn't designed to allow touch. It would just be cold, and—

Alright, so maybe the thought of all that cool metal pressed against me, and one of those gauntleted hands on the back of my neck, while he fucks me, is a  _good_ thought, but it's not  _practical_. Even if it forces me to close my eyes for a second and steady my breathing, it's not a good  _idea_.

"Quite the reaction," Bruce comments in a low, very pleased voice, fingers flexing over my arm.  _Damn_. I swallow, hard, and I watch his smirk grow a little wider as he guides me through the open door of the bathroom and asks, "What were you thinking about, Jason?"

Should have known better. Of course he would recognize the change in my breathing, the sound and feel and sight of my restraint. No point in trying to fool him.

My gaze snaps up at the sound of footsteps, and up to the sight of Dick, fully naked, crossing the cream tile of the bathroom floor to stand next to us. Unconcerned and flaunting of being naked and supposedly 'vulnerable,' as always.  _Christ_ he's gorgeous, and how I've  _missed_ that sight. And there's the fucked up bit of my head again, appreciating and insisting that the smears of someone else's blood across his face, his arms, and his thighs only make him more desirable.

That it makes him dangerous, and capable, and that's way more important than what he looks like even if he  _wasn't_ so good looking.

" _Jason_ ," Bruce says, demanding my attention, but Dick smoothly co-opts it.

His hand winds in my hair, dragging my head down to his shoulder and stroking the fingertips of his other hand down across my throat. The touch pulls a shudder from me, and I try to look back up at Bruce but Dick keeps my head pressed into his shoulder and doesn't let me.

"What happened in the minute I left you two alone to make you talk to him like that, B?" Dick says, teasing and amused, and his fingers are pressing in with precision against my trachea as he holds me down and unable to pull away, constricting my breathing. It's not dangerous, not yet, but it makes me feel like the two of them have all the power — and they  _do_ and  _god_ that thought is arousing — while they trade whatever glances over my bowed neck.

I can feel Bruce's hand let go of my arm and trace up to my shoulder, and fight down a shiver at the hook of his clawed fingertips hooking underneath the collar of my shirt. "Jason was just about to tell me what he was thinking about a few moments ago. It was a  _very_ interesting reaction."

Dick's hand presses a little harder in and then releases me, stroking down the front of my throat as his other hand pulls and twists in my hair, forcing my head sideways to look up at both of them. Mostly Bruce. "Well go on then, little wing," he purrs, with a wicked smirk and narrowed blue eyes. " _Speak_."

"I'm not a  _dog_ ," I spit on automatic, mouth curling in a snarl, and Bruce chuckles and that yanks my attention back to him.

His fingers curl, and either he got telepathic abilities somewhere, I'm easy to read, or I'm just  _really_ lucky, but he moves it up and closes it around the back of my neck. I suck in a sharp breath, feeling the prick of his claws, the  _strength_ in that hand, as he murmurs, "Not a dog, no, but certainly a  _pet_." I can't  _breathe_ , and I make a small, choked noise that's all I can force out as his hand tightens a bit and his voice lowers. "You  _would_ look good in a collar, Jason. Kneeling to let me put it on every time you came home, swallowing against it,  _feeling_ it around your throat every time you took a breath."

" _Fuck_ ," I manage to get out, and I try and turn my head into Dick's shoulder, to hide all the parts of me that feel raw and exposed because god, I  _want_ that, but both of them hold me still.

"Shhh," Bruce whispers, as I shut my eyes instead, and I can feel what must be his other hand touch my jaw, stroke across my cheek. "It's alright, Jason. Dick." It must be some kind of command, because a second later they're both easing me downwards, my legs folding underneath me as Dick lets me go and Bruce pulls me back against him. The hand on the back of my neck curls to settle around the front of it instead, and his lips press against the side of my face as he brings my head back against his shoulder. I don't open my eyes, but the pressure against my throat is warm and solid, and it eases me out in a way that makes no fucking sense but I just go with it.

Dick's hands stroke along my calves, thighs, ribs, pushing with enough pressure I can feel it through my armor and jacket, and not venturing high enough to join Bruce's hand at my throat.

That was  _not_ supposed to be a fantasy I had.

"B's right," Dick says, with the purr and  _heat_ to his voice that says he's thinking of something he really likes. I force my eyes open, finding Dick's gaze and watching him. "You know how  _gorgeous_ that image is, Jason? You on your knees, letting one of us lock a collar around your throat?" I can't find anything but desire in his eyes.

_Letting_. Isn't that the important word? God, I  _want_ that.

"Don't say that if you don't mean it," I warn, past Bruce's hand and with an edge to my voice that's defensive, cautious,  _painful_. If they make me want things I can't have, if they put them in front of me and then snatch them away… I've had  _enough_ taken from me.

Dick looks taken aback for a split second, and then Bruce is forcing my head to the side and meeting my eyes when they turn towards him. "Jason," he says, sharp enough to get my full attention, "it's  _meant_ , I promise. You can have  _anything_ you want, my Talon. I'll make it happen." My breath comes short, shocked, and his head turns a little bit. "That extends to you as well, Dick." His mouth forms a line for a moment, and then he continues with, "It's occurred to me that I haven't been very clear about this, and given recent circumstances it would be better to say it aloud instead of assuming both of you will read between the lines and understand."

He pauses, and I share a look with Dick, who seems just as confused and maybe wary as I am. At least I'm not the only one in the dark. Hearing Bruce flat out say that I could ask for anything I want, and  _get_ it, is enough of a shock. If this is something more, something  _bigger_ …

Bruce releases his grip on my throat, soothing it down my arm and then farther to touch one of Dick's hands where it's resting on my hip, before raising both hands to disconnect his helmet and ease it back over his head. I stare, finding the curve of his jaw as it comes fully into view, and following it up to the flicker of his blue eyes as he lets the helmet drop behind him, taking in what I can feel and hear is a slightly deeper breath than normal. I'm  _so_ not missing the symbolism of baring himself to us either, and somehow him taking his helmet off feels like a surrender  _way_ more substantial than Dick being naked or even me being handcuffed.

His hands lower again, and he meets both of our eyes steadily, briefly. "Dick,  _Jason_ , the two of you are the most important things in my world." His voice is soft, but sharpens into something fierce, something  _dangerous_. "If I have to start wars or move  _mountains_ to keep both of you satisfied, I will. Without hesitation." I swallow, I can see the shock on Dick's face out of the corner of my eye, and Bruce wraps one hand around Dick's wrist and squeezes, gently, before leaning in and pressing his lips to mine for a brief moment. "I'll give you what you ask for if I'm capable of it," he continues, when he pulls back, "always. Please treat that as the gift it is."

I don't think I've ever heard Bruce even  _say_ the word 'please' before, and there's  _nothing_ in his expression but sincerity, possessiveness, and a slight twist of wariness.

Then Dick is moving, pressing up hard and hungry against Bruce and me, his mouth finding our partner's and claiming it. One of his hands comes up and wraps around the back of Bruce's neck, and even through the shock and the aching pain of what I think might be  _love_ in my chest — I can deal with  _that_ later — it's a sharp reminder that before this I was aroused and well on the way to being hard, and that hasn't gone away. Bruce's spare hand mimics Dick's, circling around the back of his first Talon's neck, and Dick makes a low,  _desperate_ noise that I don't think I remember ever hearing before

I watch, my own hunger growing at the sight of the two of them, and the warm, very  _naked_ press of Dick up against me and my layers of armor. I could probably slip or pick the handcuffs holding my wrists behind my back without a problem, even if they are Owl-grade, but that would take concentration and I really don't want to miss any of this. Not even to have my hands free to touch both of them.

Dick parts to breathe, eyes flickering open, and staring up at Bruce he echoes, "Always." He sounds a little out of breath, a little out of control, but the free hand that snaps up to touch me is gentle when it strokes across my cheek, brushing some of my hair back. "The three of us," he demands, looking to me and then back to Bruce, "together  _past_ death and through whoever stands in our way.  _Always_. That's what I want."

Bruce nods, slowly, and then turns towards me. "Jason?"

"Uncuff me," I hear myself say, almost numbly, and then Bruce's hands are at my back and my hands are free. I pull forward, towards Dick as I raise my hands and wrap both of them in his hair, dragging him down into a kiss that's too messy and hungry to be really good, but I don't know any other way to express this feeling  _burning_ in my chest. He comes willingly, meeting my desperation to try and show him  _something_ about what I'm feeling with his own brand of desperation, and I take what I can, as  _much_ as I can.

Then I break off, letting him go, and turn to Bruce. I reach up just as hungrily, curling my fingers into his hair and —  _god_ — trying to show him, trying to make him  _feel_ it. For once he lets me be aggressive, lets me hold him tight enough it has to hurt, lets me cling and feel until I just  _can't_ anymore and I pull away from his mouth, lowering my head to press it against his shoulder. Then I let go of his hair with my right hand, turning and finding Dick, watching with something between desire and awe, and reclaim my grip in my predecessor's hair. Not tight enough to hurt, not demanding, not pulling. I just want to  _hold_ him where he is and never let him get away from me. I think I finally understand what drives both of them to be such possessive bastards sometimes.

"Always," I manage to get out, holding Dick's gaze, and maybe it comes out rough and too full of a thousand words I can't say, but at least it comes out.

"Then it's settled," Bruce says quietly, into the air between the three of us, as Dick's eyes brighten and go soft all at once. "From now on we work things through here at home, no matter what the problem is." I shift my head in agreement, and Dick smiles. Warm, and real, and barely even the threat his smiles always are.

He looks down at me, shifts his head into my hand, and then his smile slips to a wicked smirk. "You never told us what you were thinking, little wing."

_Oh_.

My breath catches, eyes flickering closed at the reminder of my fantasy, and Bruce chuckles. "It  _must_ be quite the thought. Tell us, Jason."

After all of this, it doesn't feel like that big a thing to spit out. "You, Bruce," I admit, "fucking me while—" I cut off, swallowing, and Dick's hand strokes up my thigh.

"While?" he prompts, as Bruce makes a sound that's obvious interest, and encouragement.

"While still in the suit," I finish, quietly, somehow still expecting rejection even though we  _just_ promised.  _Always_.

Bruce laughs, warm and definitely with an edge of desire, and before I can feel offended or even let go of his hair there's a gauntleted hand at the back of my neck, pulling me back. He's leaning down through the laughter, and the way he meets my mouth is firm and confident, dominating, but not aggressive the way I just was with him. Taking what he wants, and it feels good enough that for a second I forget that he just  _laughed_ at my admitted fantasy. His tongue rolls into my mouth, imitating the thrust and slide of different parts for a few moments, and then he pulls back, teeth grazing at my bottom lip as he goes.

"Oh,  _Jason_ ," he says, in a low rumble, and then leans down and drags me up to press his mouth to my neck — just to the left of center, beneath my jaw — and suck my skin in between his teeth. My breath catches again, hand tightening in his hair as he brings what will definitely be a large,  _obvious_ mark to the surface of my throat.

Dick makes a noise of desire, and I can feel his hand clench down on my thigh. "What do you think, Bruce?" he asks, and I would look up except Bruce takes that moment to tighten his grip on my neck and give a particularly strong suck, and I groan instead. He lets go, and I can feel the smirk against my skin as I breathe and try to pull my thoughts together and away from the feeling of Dick's hand on my thigh.

Bruce chuckles, and pulls back just enough to say, directly into my ear, "I think that can be arranged."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, last official chapter for this! The next one is going to be a much shorter epilogue piece, and should go up Friday (assuming I finish it in time). Here, finally, is your payoff for all of that angst and unhappiness. XD Enjoy!

I swear to god I stop breathing for a moment. Bruce's breath is hot against my ear, lips brushing the shell with just a  _hint_ of teeth behind them, and Dick's hand is tight against my thigh, hard enough for me to feel even through the thin pads of armor. My back arches and my hands clench down  _hard_ in their hair, a sound leaving my throat that's rough and wanting as I arch my neck to bare my throat to both of them,  _either_  of them.

Bruce makes a deep, rumbling noise of approval, and Dick echoes it with a small laugh that's nearly  _drenched_ in desire. "That  _is_ one hell of an image, isn't it?" Dick says, and then his other hand is stroking up the center of my chest —  _hard_ enough I can feel it, because Dick  _knows_ how much it takes to get sensation through my armor — and his mouth is at the front of my throat.

I swear I don't  _whine_  when his teeth hook down near the hollow of my throat, rolling and sucking in the same way Bruce did, to drag a bruise to the top of my skin. If I come out of this with less than a couple dozen marks like that on my neck, let alone the  _rest_ of me, I'm not going to believe it. Bruce likes to mark, to leave  _proof_ of his — my breath catches, and I press up into the feeling of Dick's mouth — ownership, and Dick just likes teeth all the way around. He won't hurt me, not seriously, but I'd  _never_ ask him to keep his teeth to himself.

Dick gives a breathless laugh against my skin, and then presses a small, gentle kiss over the site of the newest mark. "You're wearing  _way_  too much, little wing," he says, and I can  _feel_  the smile spread across his face.

Bruce murmurs an agreement, and I swallow at the feeling of his mouth over my ear, arch a little farther because  _fuck_. I know I want this, I know I want every  _damn_  inch of this and I can  _feel_  how much they do too. It's not just me and my fucked up desires, it's something that arouses Bruce, and Dick, and that they  _want_ to do to and with me. They  _want_  this, and that eases a knot I didn't even know I was holding onto. It's not just that I'm fucked in the head. It's  _not_. This is all my choice, every word and touch is because I  _let_  it happen, and because they want to.

No one is forcing anything on me, and I'm sure as fuck not capable of forcing anything on them either. Not ever.

They want  _me_. Even after I betrayed them, fought them, even after all the wounds dug and carved into me over the years. Even though I'm  _fucked_ up and I know it, even though I've been beaten, and burned, and broken time after time and not put back together right. Even though I've done  _so_ much to hurt both of them, and  _so_ much that they won't ever approve of and never should. I betrayed  _everything_  both of them taught me, I turned it around and brought it back down on their heads, and they still  _want_ me.

_Why?_ God,  _why?_

No, it doesn't matter,  _don't_ look a gift horse in the mouth. I'll take what they're offering, for as long they offer it —  _"Always,"_ whispers a part of my mind, but an equal part laughs hysterically at just the  _thought_ that someone would want me that long — and I'll let myself enjoy even  _knowing_ that someday they're going to figure out that I'm not who I was, that I'm not  _special_ , or important, or worth  _any_ of this. It'll  _hurt_ , and I  _know_  that, but I'll take it because I have to. Because if I don't, I won't get  _any_ of this.

Call me selfish, masochistic, or maybe just plain  _stupid_ , but I want as much of this flame as I can hold before it sears the flesh off my bones and leaves me screaming. I already know what that feels like.

"Little wing,  _Jason_ ," Dick's mouth presses soft kisses up my throat, his hands stroking and finding the small gaps where he can touch my skin. "What is it? What's  _wrong?_ "

I shake my head, sharply and absolutely because I  _can't_. Let me have at least one night with the two of them before they find out how little I'm worth, let me have at  _least_ that. Let me pretend that it's all going to work out alright, that I'm going to have this for any longer than it takes for them to see the  _scars_ that have been torn into every inch of my mind, and realize how jagged the edges are. I already know; they'll figure it out fast enough.

"Jason," and that's Bruce's voice, Bruce's free hand touching my jaw as he forces me up and away from the safe arch of my throat, " _don't_  hide from us like this. Tell us what it is." I give another sharp shake of my head, and Bruce growls in the  _Owlman_  voice, " _Look_  at me."

I'm so used to obeying that tone that I don't even think about it. My eyes snap open, and there's something weirdly like concern in Bruce's eyes. Dick's face is pressed close to my throat, but he pulls back and looks at me too, fingers pausing where they're slipped beneath the very edge of my shirt to touch skin. I swallow, caught between the two of them, frozen and stiff and  _praying_  that my thoughts aren't written all over my face.

"Doesn't matter," I manage, forcing my hands loose to stroke through their hair, just to  _feel_ them.

"Bullshit," Dick snaps, and I can't help flinching. "Come on, little wing, we know you better than that. You're hurting, tell us  _why_."

"It doesn't matter," I repeat. " _Please_  just trust me; leave it alone."

" _Jason!_ " Bruce snaps, reprimanding and sharp enough to feel like a blow. Dick draws back as Bruce's hand tightens in my hair, his eyes narrowed as he forces me up a few more inches. "Trusting you is  _not_ the same as allowing you to lie to us about something obviously important, and you  _know_ that. Don't  _ever_  try and guilt us into accepting your lies by claiming we don't trust you."

The accusation hits too close to home, and I let go of my loose grips in their hair and try and shove Bruce away from me. "Let  _go!_ " I snarl, feeling the Pit's madness at the back of my skull and trying not to let it get any further than that. But I can  _feel_ it, I can—

Bruce doesn't move except to grip my closer thigh with his free hand, pinning it to the floor. He's  _so_ much stronger than me in that suit, and then bare hands are gripping my right arm and twisting it behind my back until my shoulder burns. I can feel Dick behind me, feel how he's shifted to trap me between the two of them, and I fight their hold. Pushing at Bruce's suit doesn't even phase him, and I can't escape the press of his hand or the steady gaze of his eyes no matter how much I writhe.

The green-laced anger of the Pit takes me, digging claws into my frustration and fear and breaking through the tenuous shield I'd managed to build. I can feel Dick's hold on my arm give just a bit at the new surge of strength, and the Pit focuses me down to that weakness and concentrates my struggles on the arm Dick has trapped. Inside that suit, Bruce is an immovable rock, but  _Dick?_ I'm stronger than Dick, at least physically, and I can barely even feel the pain in my shoulder past the screaming  _fury_  in my head.

"Let go!" I manage to spit, wrenching my arm, and I can feel Dick only  _barely_  manage to hold onto it. I swallow the pain that does get past the Pit's anger, as he retaliates by pulling my arm higher on my back.

"I don't want to hurt you, little wing," Dick says, like he's trying to soothe a wild animal.  _Rich_  words, coming from him.

"Fucking  _liar_. Does it get you off,  _Dick?_ "

I barely have time to register that Bruce has let go of my leg before my head snaps to the side, dazed from the impact of the metal gauntlet across my face. I swallow, stilled and trying to mentally put together the four lines of fire high across my cheek, the ache, and the sound still ringing in my ears. Metal against flesh, high speed, the fire is where the skin has split under; claws?

"That's  _enough_ ," Bruce growls, low and dangerous. He  _slapped_  me. "Jason, you're lashing out because you're in pain."

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" A distant part of my mind winces at the words, but Bruce doesn't visibly react. "Let me go, Bruce,  _now_."

"No. We made a  _deal_ ; always. That doesn't change just because you're hurting, Jason. Through good  _and_ bad, remember?"  _Pain_ surges in my chest, takes my breath for a moment, and Bruce's hand gentles in my hair to slide down and grip the back of my neck instead. "Let us help, Jason. That's all we want."

" _Damn_ you," I snarl, breathlessly. "You think a few stupid words are going to mean anything in a week, or a month? Everyone means them  _now_ , but just wait till something changes and watch this whole fucking agreement fall apart. You  _really_ think a stupid promise is going to hold then? They're just  _words_ , and you want me to just lay everything bare for your fucking perusal? Maybe I don't want to trust you with my whole life considering your fucking fantastic track record with it!"

Bruce recoils, flinches backwards a little bit, and my breath catches in my throat. I—  _God_ I didn't mean to say that. I never meant to— Not  _ever_.

"I'm  _sorry_ ," I gasp out,  _viciously_ shoving the Pit out of my mind, or at least  _trying_ to. It clings in the corners, shrieks and snarls and tries to make me return to the tempting, promising lure of the  _fury_. "I—  _Fuck_." I squeeze my eyes shut, raising my free hand to press over my own eyes and try and control myself. "I didn't mean that. I don't— I'm  _sorry_." A laugh bubbles in my chest and escapes my throat before I can strangle it, and I can feel my hand shaking. "Fuck, there goes that. Thought I was going to get at least a night before you figured it out but I've fucked that up too."

"Figured out what?" Bruce asks, the cool metal of his gauntlet closing around my wrist and pulling my hand away from my face. I only fight it for a second.

The anger comes back for that same second, as I open my eyes and look up at him. "You're going to make me fucking  _say_ it too?" I don't know where the shudder that shakes my shoulders come from, but I take a moment to force the Pit back away so my words are only angry, and not laced with the  _madness_. "I'm  _broken_ , alright? I'm  _fucked_ up." My jaw clenches down, and I can't keep Bruce's cool, shielded gaze. I have to look away, down at the grey metal of his shoulder. "Nobody  _chooses_ to stick around someone as screwed up as me. Just thought I'd get a night from this before both of you figured it out."

Dick's hands let go of my arm, carefully easing it back to a more natural position. "You're not broken," he says softly, mouth pressing in against the side of my jaw. Selfishly, I don't pull away. "Little wing, you're  _not_ broken."

"You have no idea what's in my head, Dick." The anger is draining out of me, leaving pain and hollow resignation behind. The game's done. The cat's out of the bag. Now both of them know that I'm more insane than any of us want to believe, and that they're better off without some cracked, shattered wreck of a person around them. I'm not  _worth_ their attention, not like this. I don't have anything to trade for that kind of care; nothing to  _give_.

His hand follows the path of his mouth, gently touching my cheek. I wince at the touch to what have to be bleeding scratches. "Come on, Jay. Maybe I don't know all of what you've been through, but broken is my  _specialty_ , remember? That's not you."

"You're wrong," I tell him, flatly. "After the Ultras, the  _Pit_ …" Another shudder shakes me, and I squeeze my eyes shut again. "It can't be fixed, the Pit's going to be in my head  _forever_." I shake my head and try not to think about everything that's about to fall apart. "You'll figure it out eventually. I'm not worth the effort, I'm not—"

" _Don't_ ," Bruce says sharply, and my eyes snap open. There's a trace of anger to the narrowness of his eyes, the set of his jaw. "Jason, you have no idea what you're worth to me and Dick. You're one of us, you're  _ours_. Don't  _ever_ think you're worthless. The fact that you've suffered, and that you're never going to forget it,  _doesn't_ mean that we don't want you just the way you are."

My throat tightens — the words feel like a punch to the solar plexus — and I grit my teeth together. "I'm not—"

Bruce talks over my protest, his grip tightening on the back of my neck. "We  _know_ you're not perfect, Jason. None of us are perfect. But we also know that the moment earlier, what you said? That's not you, and we don't need the way your eyes glow greener to know that." His gauntleted hand tightens on my wrist for a moment, the thumb stroking over my skin. I can barely breathe, I can't— "The Lazarus Pit takes a toll, and the fact that you can control it so much of the time is proof enough that you're  _strong_ , Jason. The moments you cannot are nothing more than moments. You are  _strong_ , and you're the only one who can't see it."

His eyes flick sideways for a moment, I have to assume to Dick, and then there's the press of lips against my jaw. "Maybe we can't convince you of it, little wing, but we want  _you_. Every flawed, powerful,  _incredible_ part of you. So let us have what we want, for as long as we want it, and maybe someday you'll realize that 'always' means exactly that."

"If you don't," Bruce starts, seamlessly picking up where Dick left off, "I suppose you will simply have to tolerate having us around. I, for one, have no intention of ever letting you leave without a promise of return." His mouth tilts up at one corner in a small smirk. "I imagine you probably wouldn't mind all  _that_ much if I tied you down to our bed, would you, Jason?"

Somehow, past the pain, and the disbelief, and  _everything_ rampaging through my chest, that idea still manages to steal what little breath I have for a moment.

"We'd keep you occupied," Dick says, with a hint of heat. "Not a great long term plan, but I think we could make it work for a little while. If for  _some_ reason you actually want to leave after we welcome you back, well, we'll just have to convince you some more. We're pretty convincing, little wing."

Bruce leans in, catching my mouth with his, and my eyes automatically flick closed. It's a soft kiss, a gentle one that lasts for several long, lingering moment. Then he pulls back, pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth. I drag my eyes back open, meeting his gaze. "We want you here, Jason. Even if you don't believe that will always be the case, it's true right now. If you want to leave, you may, but otherwise, share yourself with us and let us have you again. Be ours."

I can't manage anything but a small nod.

The same thoughts keep looping in my head, the questions of  _why_ and  _how_ , but I swallow them away. There's no way this is real, I can't  _dare_ hoping that, but I can take what they're offering. All I can dare hope for is a night, and they're offering that. I can enjoy that, can't I? I can take one night for myself and be rejected in the morning, that's fine. I know it will come, within the week if not the day, but I already decided I wanted to feel as much of this as I can before it's taken from me. It will hurt, but I know that already. I can at least make some memories to keep close once I'm alone again.

And if they  _mean_ that, if it's  _true_ … No, I can't go there. It's a pipe dream, a  _fantasy_. I won't believe in what I can't have, I can't do that and still stay sane when this falls apart. I'll just take what's offered and leave it at that. I won't hope for more, and I damn well won't ask for it either.

"Alright," I agree, past the tightness of my throat. "Whatever you want. Whatever  _either_ of you want."

"No, little wing," Dick remands, softly. "This is about  _you_. B; that fantasy?"

That's still a hell of a thing to think about — Bruce still in that suit, fucking me with that gauntleted hand at my neck or in my hair — but it's also more intense than something normal. Everything feels so raw, so  _sensitive_. I don't know if I can—

"No," Bruce says softly, releasing my wrist. "Some other night, Dick. For now, let's start with basics." His head tilts, eyes scanning me and then turning to look at Dick. "We should all clean up. The two of you especially." Bruce carefully pulls away from me, shifting back and leaving me half leaning into Dick's warmth. "As much as I enjoy the sight of the two of you still bloody, I don't want it in my sheets."

"Spoilsport," Dick complains, obviously teasing. "Going to strip out of the suit?"

Bruce leans in again, brushing his lips against mine for a fraction of a second before moving past me. I turn my head to watch him kiss Dick, to see the easy peace on both of their faces. "Yes," Bruce answers, once he's pulled back. "I'll be back to join you before too long. Don't start anything without me."

"No promises," Dick nearly purrs, chasing our partner's mouth for a moment before giving a wicked smirk and letting him pull away. "You should probably hurry."

Bruce answers the smirk with a tiny quirk of lips, and pulls back enough to look me in the eyes. "Jason, you won't get involved with anything without me here to join, will you?"

"Oh,  _don't_ put me in the middle of your games," I ask, and Bruce gives a soft noise of amusement as he stands. It's a little bit of porn to watch him unfold and get to his feet quite that gracefully.

"Wasn't in the middle exactly where you wanted to be?" he counters, and I was sure I had some kind of answer for him but for the life of me I can't remember what it was. Those words steal it right off my tongue, and all I can do is swallow and try not to look quite so dumbfounded as I feel.

Jesus, it really has been too long since I've been around Bruce's silver tongue — and all its many uses — if he can make me speechless that easily. I really need to get used to that, and Dick's manipulations, if I'm going to have any chance in here. At least, any chance at being more than the outwitted partner every single time. I don't expect to ever actually get the best of Bruce in a verbal match, or of Dick in his seduction games, but it doesn't have to be this easy for them. It shouldn't be.

Bruce's smirk is knowing, and he leaves our back and forth right where it's stopped. He ducks down to retrieve his helmet, and then turns on his heel to stride out of the bathroom. The way his free hand flicks out towards the still running, completely ignored shower is pointed even though there's no actual command in the vague gesture. His cape billows out behind him, weighed down by the metal overlay but not enough to stop its movement.

Dick presses up against my back, his hands winding around either side of my waist as the door clicks shut behind our third. "I still think you're wearing too much clothing, little wing," he purrs into my ear, his teeth punctuating the statement with a gentle nip to the shell of my ear. I can't help the slight shiver, or the way my head falls back about an inch to bare more of my throat to him.

His hands slip beneath the bottom of my shirt, dragging nails lightly against my skin and drawing patterns. He makes a noise of appreciation, pressing a little harder up against me, his hands dipping to tease the skin at the very edge of where my pants start, and then a fraction lower. I draw in a shallow breath, closing my eyes and—

"Especially if you're going to join me in the shower."

My eyes snap open as Dick abruptly pulls away, his hands dropping down as he stands and moves past me. I watch, a little shell shocked, but honestly most of my mind is just rolling its eyes and questioning why I thought anything else was going to happen. Dick might wait at least a little while before ignoring Bruce's request to keep our hands to ourselves, or he might not, but denial is one of his favorite games. If he can work someone up and then cut them off, even temporarily, he will. I know that; most of the time I can even enjoy it, in a distant way. He's rarely openly cruel about it, and at least for me there's always the promise that there  _will_ be satisfaction at the end of everything.

So I should get the hell out of my clothes and join him in the shower. The faster we're clean the faster things can move to the bed, and worries or not, I'm looking forward to that.

I shrug out of my jacket, keeping my gaze on Dick so I can watch the turn of his hips and the curve of his ass. Plus the moment that he steps over the slightly raised ceramic boundary at the edge of the shower's area, and ducks beneath one of the sprays of water. His eyes close as he arches slightly, mouth twisting into a smile as the water flattens his hair to his scalp and streams down the side of him that's turned towards me. It's a few steps above breathtaking.

I swallow, staring for a long second before quickly returning to stripping down. The boots are easy, the belt and pants a little less so. Dick's  _really_ distracting, and I'm good at stripping down fast and efficiently but not usually when I have something taking up so much of my focus. It feels a bit like a sin to take my eyes off of him for even a second. I all but tear my shirt off, and then work on the straps to get my armor the hell off of me so I can join him in that shower. He's watching me now, mouth curved in that tiny smirk and eyes half lidded. That doesn't make it any easier to force my fingers to work and actually cooperate in getting my armor off.

I manage it, finally, and get to my feet. I leave my clothes in the half of a pile they ended up in, not caring enough to make them any neater than that. The pants and shirt are just going to get thrown out anyway — there's too much blood for them to be salvageable — and hopefully Alfred's going to work some of his magic on my jacket and make it good enough to wear again. If he can't… I think I could probably be okay with it joining the scrap heap. I can get another one, somewhere far away and only using my own money. I don't think I need that jacket anymore.

I don't need a lot of things after today. Want, sure, but I don't actually need most of them.

I get to the shower, pausing for just a moment before stepping in beside Dick. The water feels a bit like heaven, and even with Dick not more than a few feet away from me I still can't help closing my eyes and breathing out long and slow. Skin brushes my shoulder, and I flick my eyes open as I turn my head. Dick smiles, fingers squeezing down over my shoulder for a second.

"Relax, little wing," he half suggests, and half orders. "Let's get you cleaned up."

I snort, glancing at the streaks of dried blood scattered across his skin. Most of it's rinsed off, but I know it's dried a little more firmly in his hair, and I can see that there are still bits of the streaks that will take soap to really get off. "Like I'm the only one who needs to clean off."

Dick smirks, letting go of my shoulder and stepping further into the shower. He reaches for the racks, snagging a bottle of shampoo and pouring some of it into his hand. I follow him, coming up near his back so I can get to the racks too. I remember  _most_ of what's in here, though I could probably use a bit of a refresher course. It's a serious variety of things; everything needed to scrub blood or grime off, but also all the sweet-smelling, soft things to make sure that Dick and Bruce stay perfect for cameras.

Dick turns, rubbing his hands together briefly and then reaching up for my hair. I  _expected_ him to clean off his own hair, but I don't protest it. I duck my head a little bit as I close my eyes. His hands comb through my hair, working whatever shampoo he's chosen in as he eases out the blood-stiff strands. I let him work, blindly reaching forward to touch his waist, and then loop my arm around him. He laughs, soft and low.

"We're not supposed to start anything, remember?"

I roll my shoulders in a shrug, not opening my eyes. We're just far enough out of the water that it's not immediately rinsing out the shampoo, so it's not going to run into my eyes if I do open them, but this is… nice. It's soft, it's lazy, and I don't feel like disrupting it. "You want me to just stand here with my hands at my side?" I counter, only making myself loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water. "When I could be touching you instead? Thought we covered that I'm not masochistic."

He laughs again, louder this time, and then I can feel him press up against me. His skin slides against mine, warm and wet, with the water falling down against our chests and everything beneath. His fingers tug a little in my hair, just enough to make the intention clear. I lean into him, looping my arm more firmly around his waist and raising my other hand to rest lightly on his hip, tracing my fingers across his skin by touch alone.

Finally his hands pull out of my hair, and he nudges the side of my shoulder with what I think is an elbow. "Underneath the spray," he orders, pulling away from me. As much as I want to hold on, I let him pull out of my loose grip and away from me.

I open my eyes just long enough to pinpoint the closest shower head, then close them again and step underneath it. I raise my hands to my head, tilting it down and running my fingers through it to help the water get all the way down to my scalp. I can't keep track of where Dick is, not with the sound of the water around us, but I'd guess that he's doing his own hair while I rinse out mine. It makes the most logistical sense. That, or he's scrubbing off the last of the stains on his skin.

When my hair feels clean again I pull out from under the direct spray, wiping one hand up and back over my face and hair to get rid of the excess water. Then I open my eyes and look over to find Dick, confirming that he's just ducking underneath one of the sprays of water himself. It runs across his skin as he tilts his head beneath it, tinted pink but with the white bubbles and foam of whatever shampoo he decided to use. I can only manage a small snort when my cock decides that this is reaching the point of real interest.

Yeah, no  _shit_. A wet, still slightly bloody Dick? Worth any and all aroused reactions.

If I hadn't gotten raised this way, it'd probably freak me out that the blood is part of the appeal. But the blood means that someone else is hurting, that Dick's riding high and enjoying himself, and most importantly, it means he's safe. It's a really rare thing that Dick bleeds, and rarer still that anyone else gets to see it. Anyone but Bruce and me getting to see the cleanup? Not gonna happen unless it's seriously life threatening and there's no other option. We don't advertise the fact that we're just humans, and that we're mortal.

I move up behind Dick, gently touching his back to warn him I'm there before stepping closer to wrap my arms around his chest. I close my eyes before the water can get in them, ducking my head down against his shoulder and turning my face into his neck. I can feel him still moving underneath my grip, washing the shampoo out of his hair, but he doesn't push me away and that's permission enough. I let myself drift a little bit, just enjoying the warmth and contact of his skin on mine.

"Jason," he says eventually, just loud enough to be heard over the water, "I'm not going to leave."

He turns in my grip, arms looping around my shoulders and his mouth finding mine. It's soft, barely even feels like a kiss by the standards I'm used to judging Dick by. His fingers run up the back of my neck, into my hair, and he pulls back to rest his forehead against mine. I don't open my eyes, there's still too much water, but I can feel him take in a slightly deeper than normal breath.

"I know you don't trust that, or maybe you can't, but it's true. So  _you_ don't get to leave for anything but a damn good reason, you understand me?" His fingers give a small tug at my hair, and his other arm contracts where it's hooked over my shoulder. "No leaving because you think it's better for us, or because you think we're just putting up with you, or  _any_ of that. I will  _hunt you down_  for an explanation, little wing, so keep that in mind before you leave because of something stupid. You bring your problems to Bruce and me, and we'll talk you through them. Even if we have to tie you down to do it."

"Sounds like a good time," I manage, trying not to take his words too deeply to heart. Sarcasm and innuendo is easier, it lets me hide behind the humor and not have to face everything head on.

Dick gives a snort and tightens his grip, dragging me a little closer. "Yeah, it will be. Though I'd prefer to tie you down for something a lot less important, little wing." I suck in a sharp breath at the shift of his thigh between my legs, and Dick tilts to kiss me again. Harder this time, and pinning me in place with the hand in my hair. "Is that what you want tonight?" he asks when he pulls back, against my lips and still close enough to almost  _taste_.

"I want a lot of things," I deflect, and Dick  _yanks_ my head back. I can't hold back the startled yelp that bursts up and out of my throat.

"Don't avoid my questions," he says, with a sharp hint of command. I shudder. "Take two steps back and get on your knees, little wing." His hands release me, and I swallow.

"Dick, we're not—"

" _Now_." I snap to obey.

The two steps take me out of the main streams of water, and I sink to my knees on the tile. Dick moves forward, his fingers wrapping underneath my chin and pulling my head up to look at him. His eyes are slightly narrowed, heated — he's  _obviously_ enjoying himself — and dangerous enough to raise a sick thrill up the length of my spine. His mouth is flat, but I can see the almost imperceptible curl to one corner. The seriousness is for show; this is just him playing.

That doesn't mean it's not dangerous.

"Why don't you tell me some of what you want?" he nearly purrs, tilting his head to the right as he studies me. "When the three of us are dried off, and back in that bedroom, what happens in your head, Jason? Tell me."

I swallow  _hard_ , feeling his steel grip on the bottom of my jaw and losing myself in his eyes for a moment. What happens? What are my fantasies? I—  _Fuck_. "I haven't thought that far ahead," I admit. "It's kinda hard to focus on anything but what's actually happening."

He gives a low laugh. The release of my jaw doesn't feel like mercy, and the slide of his fingers back through my hair and tightening of them to a firm grip confirms that it's  _definitely_  not. "Close your eyes," he orders, and I do. "Think about it. We're dry, we step back into that room… What happens?"

"I…" I have to swallow again, try and focus past the grip in my hair and the heat and wet of the shower. Or maybe it's about letting myself relax, letting my thoughts just go whatever direction they want to. "Bruce's hand is at the small of my back, he guides me over to the bed. He ties my hands to the loop at the top of the four poster's frame—  _fuck_ , tell me you didn't get rid of that. You lay down on the bed in front of me, to watch and put on a show. Working yourself open; he'll want you before the night's done. I'm not allowed to take my eyes off you. Bruce takes his time; just explores. I'm different, he'll want to memorize everything, figure out  _everything_ that's sensitive.

" _God_ , Dick. He'll want to leave marks everywhere he can; my sides, neck, hips,  _thighs_. I'll plead; he'll laugh. He won't touch anything important no matter what I do. When you're done he'll leave me and pull you off the bed, bend you across it. It's not time yet, but you have to stay open for him. He'll push something in you to keep you that way, tug at your cock some but not enough. Not time for that either. You'll both pull me down, tie my arms behind my back and make me kneel down on the bed. Push my chest down on it. You'll be between my legs, leaving your own marks up my back while your fingers push into me. Bruce sits at the top of the bed, near my head, to watch. He strokes and tugs at my hair, sometimes presses his fingers to my mouth for me to suck.

"When it's enough he wraps his hand around the back of my neck and pins my head down. He wants to hear me shout; orders you to fu—"

Dick's mouth crashes into mine, fingers pulling hard at my hair and his other hand dragging me halfway to standing by my left arm. He presses up against me, giving a half-desperate sound and then gasping out, " _Fuck_ , little wing," in a brief gap between our mouths. "You have to stop talking or we're not going to make it to the bedroom."

"You told me to," I manage to get out in little spits of sound, though it's muffled by the hungry press of his mouth.

I can feel the hot press of his erection near my hip, and it's not fully hard but it's definitely farther along than it was before his question. It's not like I'm unaffected either. I haven't got the most vivid imagination, I don't get to see movies of my thoughts inside my own head, but I'm good enough at it. The ideas that fantasy spawned in my head, the feelings, the  _hunger_ , are nothing to laugh at. It's not as intense of a hunger as the thoughts of Bruce fucking me while in his suit, but the two of them playing like that is still more than enough to reawaken all of my arousal.

Dick being warm, wet, and pressed up against me definitely isn't hurting either.

"I didn't expect you to go off on a  _porn_ script," he says against me, his hand letting go of my arm and wrapping around my waist. There's just a bit of nail in his grip, but it's not enough that I care about it, not with the rest of him right here. "You always get that vivid when you fantasize, little wing?"

I try for a snort, but it kind of just comes out as a strained huff of breath, especially since he pulls me closer as I'm trying to voice it. "I'm not usually narrating it out loud. Don't really pay attention to how vivid it might be if I'm just jacking off. I don't  _analyze_ things like that."

He gives a slightly breathless laugh, and drags me into another kiss.

I don't know how long he holds me in it, barely letting me breathe past the intensity of the press of his mouth and the driving flick of his tongue. His hands wander, skimming across my skin and tracing the definition of muscle and the lines of scars. It's long enough for him to grow hard, and me to follow suit. He isn't shy about the way he presses his hips into mine, grinding forward. It's a  _struggle_ to keep my hands from dipping any lower than his waist, so I clutch at his back instead to vent the desire.

After a while — where my world is narrowed to the feel of Dick against me, and the taste of him on my tongue — there's a sharp rap of sound that cuts through the water, and both of us jump. I can feel Dick tense, coil for an attack, before both of our heads turn far enough to fix in on the direction of the sound. Bruce, drawing his hand away from the wall at the very edge of the shower. Knuckles against ceramic, that was the noise.

His mouth is in a thin smirk, eyes heated, and he's half leaning on the wall watching us. He's still partially clothed, in the black tank top and sweatpants of his more casual style, and his head is tilted a bit to one side. Dick draws back half a step, his hands sliding away from their grips to rest at my hips. I have to swallow a sound at the feel of his fingers tracing over my skin, and my eyes still flicker closed for a moment.

"I thought I told both of you not to start anything," Bruce says, as he straightens off the wall. "Decide to disobey that?"

I stiffen a little bit, and Dick gives a small smirk and a laugh. "My fault, Bruce. I told Jason to tell me his fantasy of how the night was going to go. He did  _try_ to tell me no." Dick lets go of me, shrugs out of my loose grip, and then steps away. "Joining us?"

Bruce seems to think about it for a moment, and then gives a small shake of his head. "No, I'm clean, and tempting as the two of you are I prefer a bed. Dick, get the last of the blood off your skin and come out of there. Jason, same goes for you." His voice has more command in it than Dick could  _ever_ replicate, and a heavy shudder shakes my shoulders and sweeps down my back.

"Oh, I think Jason  _likes_ that tone of voice," Dick says with a laugh. "Might want to file that away in the mental lists, Bruce." Before I can even  _try_ and get together some kind of counter to that he's turning away with another, sharper laugh, and then heading to the racks. I watch him grab a bar of soap from its ornamental dish, move beneath one of the sprays, and start scrubbing at his skin with it. It captivates me for a moment.

"There's a second bar at the opposite end of the rack," Bruce says, snapping me out of my daze. After I manage a nod, and jerk myself into movement, he turns away. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him cross the room to the counters, but I lose sight of him as I hunt for the bar of soap he's talking about.

It's not hard to find. A soap strong enough to clean off dried blood is a pretty commonly used thing. Not usually other people's blood, not enough skin showing for that to be an issue most of the time, but for our own blood. Even when a wound closes on it's own, or is held closed by stitched or a bandage, it still bleeds to start with. Not all of that gets soaked up in our clothes. I grab hold of it and step to the opposite side of the shower.

If I'm not  _looking_ at Dick, then he's much less of a temptation. At least right now, when he's not speaking, or making other noises, or touching me. Just knowing he's there is a lot easier of a thing to ignore than any of the rest of it.

I set to scrubbing, and finding the spots on my skin where the clone's blood got past my clothing. When I'm reasonably sure that I haven't missed anything, and I'm as clean as I'm going to get, I turn back around to put the soap away. Dick is out of the shower, a thick white towel wrapped around his shoulders and a matching one in Bruce's hand. Dick is leaned close into Bruce's side, speaking in his ear with a  _wicked_ smirk. I almost just pauses and wait for Dick to finish whatever he's saying before I push myself forward.

I walk towards the edge of the shower, and Bruce twists to extend his free hand and turn off the shower with the control panel at the edge of it. I have to suppress a shiver at the sudden lack of heated water, but it barely lasts a moment before I'm close to them, and Bruce is extending the towel with a twist and flick of his wrist. It settles neatly around my shoulders. Dick flashes me a smile, and then steps back and brings the towel up to scrub through his hair. It looks like the rest of him is mostly dry.

"Dry off, Jason," Bruce says quietly, in a deep, rumbling voice that  _instantly_ reawakens my interest. "The sooner you're done, the sooner we can start the night in earnest. Damp hair is acceptable,  _wet_ is not."

"Got it." My voice definitely comes out just a little shaky, and probably a  _lot_ distracted. Bruce's mouth curls in a smirk, and his gaze pointedly drags down my frame and then back up.

"I'm waiting."

I don't quite burn myself with the friction of the towel, but I give it a definite try with how fast I snap to obey. Probably the only thing that saves me is how soft the towel is, and how high quality. Dick is still done with drying off by the time I'm finished, and has had time to cross over and lean over Bruce's shoulder. One of his hands is splayed across our partner's stomach, arm loose around his waist, and that definitely distracts me for a precious few moments.

Finally, what feels like  _way_ too long later, I deem myself suitably dry and toss the towel to the side. Bruce's gaze feels like an assessment, and I try and stay still underneath the long, lingering look. After a few moments he nods, and crooks his fingers in my direction.

"Come here." His voice is back to that low rumble of command, and I obey without thinking about it. I take the two steps necessary to put me face to face with him, and his hands rise to touch my face. He draws me forward, into a kiss that's not much more than a brush of lips. Not that I can't feel the banked heat underneath it, but it's tightly controlled and restrained. "Time to take this somewhere more suitable," he says softly, as he pulls away.

I flick my eyes open in time to watch Dick step away, and then Bruce lowers his left hand back to his side and the right to my arm. He gives the smallest tug, an order to follow if I'm reading it at  _all_ right, and then moves towards the bathroom door. I fall into step beside him, and Dick moves to the other side of me, keeping pace. Bruce's hand releases its slight grip, and I try and keep my stride steady as his fingers trace up over the back of my shoulder, and then down my back. When they stop at the small of my back, and his hand flattens out, a suspicion starts in the back of my skull.

Dick is the first to slip through the door, and Bruce guides me out in front of him, his heat close to my back. When Dick  _doesn't_ immediately move to take my arm and drag me further into the room, and to the bed, the suspicion becomes a real theory.

Dick got out of the shower first, and I  _saw_ him speaking to Bruce. Did he share what I said? Is this about to…? Are they going to…? Oh  _god_.

Bruce must feel the slight shiver that slips down my spine, because he gives a low chuckle and leans in towards my ear. His hand is still at my back, firm, and we're  _definitely_ heading in the direction of the foot of the bed, and not one of the sides. "Dick told me your answer to his question was  _inspired_ , Jason," he murmurs in my ear, and my eyes shutter closed for a second.

Oh he  _did_.

I can feel my breathing pick up a notch, and then Bruce pulls me to a stop at the base of the bed. Dick is suddenly at my side, and I look down at the touch of his fingers to my right wrist. Leather circles it — a cuff — and Dick presses close. I can  _see_ him pass a matching one to Bruce, in front of me, and I try and stay very still and not give away quite how much this is affecting me. Dick pulls his cuff tight around my wrist, enough to hold but not to interfere with circulation, and close it. It's a lock that holds it together, not just a buckle, and it snaps shut with a finality that makes me swallow. I can feel Bruce snap the cuff around my other wrist shut as well.

Dick leans in, catches my mouth in a kiss for a moment, and then pulls away with a wicked smirk. His grip around my lower arm, above the cuff, is unyielding, and Bruce's is even a touch more so. Almost exactly in sync both of them pull my arms upwards, and I tilt my head back to watch as Bruce takes over. He's pressed up against my back, the fabric of his tank top dragging against my skin. I can see the loop I mentioned, still installed at the top of the wooden frame of the four poster bed. Supposedly wooden, anyway. I know that underneath the external paneling most of the bed is reinforced metal, to hold up to just about anything. Any normal bed would have broken a long time ago, under the struggling of Dick and me against restraints if not just the normal fucking.

He takes the metal loops built into the cuffs in one hand, lowers the other for a moment, back and out of my sight. When it comes back there's a solid metal lock in it, and I barely have a moment to register what that means before it's hooking through both the loops of the cuffs, then the one built onto the bed, and finally snapping closed. Bruce's hands touch my wrists for a moment, and then his lips touch the side of my neck, right below my ear, and his right hand lowers a bit and turns towards me. There's a small metal key in it.

"You'll get free when I want you to," Bruce promises, "and not a  _second_ before."

This hands slides down, tracing the lines of my arms down to my shoulders and then leaving my skin as he steps away from me. Dick is two steps away, but he's the only thing in view so I watch him as he gives an even more pointed,  _wicked_ smirk, and turns his back on me to move to the bedside table. Bruce's hand touch either side of my waist, his fingers barely even ghosting, and another shiver shakes me. A bigger one, this time.

"You know how the next part of this goes, don't you, Jason?" Bruce asks, sounding satisfied and with heat in his voice. I manage a nod, watching Dick snag a bottle of lube from within the table and crawl onto the bed. Every line of his body is sex and sin, and I'm so captivated by the sight that I barely register that one of Bruce's hands has left my skin.

Until the  _slap_  of it to my ass, hard enough to make me jump and give a startled cry. My hands yank against the cuffs, but apart from the rattle of metal there's no give. I don't get anywhere. It should probably scare me a bit, but it only make my breath catch. I pull against them again, just to feel how sturdy they are, and then shudder.

Bruce's fingers trace across my skin, at my waist and along the cheek of my ass, and he waits for my reaction to fade before speaking. "When I ask you a question, you'll answer me verbally," Bruce commands, with a slightly dangerous edge to his tone that really  _shouldn't_  make me stand at attention and strangle back something like a whimper. "Is that understood, Jason?"

"Yes," I answer. Dick's smirk is predatory, and he lays down on his back and sets the bottle down next to his hip as I watch.

"That seemed a little plain," he comments, stretching out like a cat. "I think he should call you by a title, Bruce." I freeze up for a second,  _staring_  at Dick, and he just flashes his teeth in a small grin. "I like the sound of 'sir,' personally."

Bruce's hands rise to more firmly grip either side of my waist, and he gives a low chuckle into the skin of my shoulder. His breath is hot, and I can't help arching a little bit and biting back whatever sound is driving its way up my throat. "You have a point, Dick. I think that's a wonderful idea." His fingers curl, blunt nails digging into my skin just a bit as his lips press against the side of my throat. "Well, Jason? Are you going to be good for me? Call me 'sir' when you speak to me?"

My breath shortens for a moment, and I tug at the restraints to ground myself. It doesn't really work. "Yes, sir," I manage. The word burns against my tongue, lingers in my head, and I can't help the strangled moan that leaves my throat. That's— Oh,  _fuck_. I never even  _thought_ about the idea of Bruce or Dick making me call them sir. Or  _master_ , a darker part of my mind suggests, and I grit my teeth together.

Bruce makes a satisfied sound, and then he pulls away from me, hands leaving my skin and his body no longer pressed to mine. Only for a moment though, before one of his hands is in my hair and shoving my head forward, fingers tugging at the strands. He doesn't touch me anywhere else, and he's a little too far away for me to feel the heat of his skin, but all he does is hold me there for a few moments.

"Dick's going to put on a show," Bruce says softly, "for  _my_  enjoyment. Because it pleases me, you're going to watch him. You won't look away from him until I say you can, or if I make you. Is that understood?"

God, this is really happening.

"I understand, sir." My voice is a little strained, more than I'd like but I guess it's  _stupid_ to think that Bruce doesn't know how this is affecting me. He's always seen right through me anyway, it's not like he really needed me naked and at his mercy to have that advantage.  _Fuck_ , I'm totally at their mercy. Both of them.

Dick's gaze is half-lidded, hungry and watching me intently. I can see the path of his eyes flicking to the side every once in a while, most likely to Bruce. Then he relaxes back and reaches for the bottle, and my breath freezes in my throat for a moment. Bruce releases his grip in my hair as Dick uncaps the bottle and slicks the fingers of his right hand, holding my gaze the whole time. I can feel the trail of fingers down my spine, slipping out to trace my right hip and then lingering at the back of my thigh.

"Spread your legs," Bruce orders.

I obey, shifting my weight so I can slide my feet wider on the carpet. It makes me roll my weight to the balls of my feet to keep my balance, and curl my fingers around the loop of metal for support. I'm tall, but this loop was put in when I was Talon and they introduced me to their games. Then, with a few extra pieces of chain, it took me to the very tips of my toes and held me arched and straight. Now, I have a lot more slack, but spreading my legs about a foot and a half eats most of it up. My feet are still flat, but only barely, and my arms are outstretched above me.

Dick recaps the lid with one hand, and then shifts enough that the slicked hand disappears beneath him. His legs slide open, slow enough to tease, and my breath comes sharp and hard. Even without Bruce's command hanging over my head, there's no way I could look away from a sight like this. No way.

Bruce's hands slide down my back, tracing the patterns of my scars. The ones from before, when he knew me, are gone. Washed and burned away by the Lazarus Pit. My new ones aren't as numerous, and most of them have cleaner lines. Bullet grazes, tiny nicks, and more than a few knife wounds from my training under Ra's. Bruce will have gotten a basic look last time I was here, before everything went to hell the first time, but probably not enough to memorize them.

Now is his chance. The cuffs aren't coming loose, neither is the loop or the frame of the bed, and even if I thought I could pick the lock Bruce would never let me. I'm trapped here, at his mercy, and he can spend as long as he wants studying me. He's  _going_ to.

I watch Dick — hungrily,  _staring_ — as Bruce's hands explore my skin. He starts at my back, and moves first up my arms, and then down along the front of my chest. Not doing anything more than tracing the lines of scar tissue, for right now. His touch is light, precise, and even though there's nothing like watching Dick — seeing his fingers dip into himself, press,  _push_ — Bruce's hands are a counterpoint. The slight touches shouldn't be as huge a part of my focus as they are, but they're so  _different_ from Dick's blatant sexuality that it's throwing them into sharp relief in my mind.

Instinct says that if anything happens that catches me off guard, Bruce will be the source, not Dick. Dick's part in this is simpler; it's Bruce that has the freedom and the ability to do whatever he wants and whatever I might not expect. Bruce was always good at circumventing what I expected from him, and now that I'm out of practice reading and anticipating him, I know I haven't got the slightest chance of actually predicting what he's going to do. Not even with him running off of my script.

Bruce must sink down to his knees behind me, or maybe just lean down, because the next place his hands go is down the sides of my legs. I  _wrote_  this damn script, so I guess it really shouldn't frustrate me that his hands stay firmly light, and avoid every single important part of me. Still just tracing my scars, mapping them out, and doing absolutely nothing else. I keep my gaze on Dick — the arch of his back and slight rise of his hips to make room for his hand — and try not to move too much. It's not as hard as I thought it might be, but then Bruce really isn't  _doing_  anything yet. Just touching, and there's no intent to arouse or to tease behind it.

Why the hell did I ever tell Dick any of this? I could have at least said something that would have been a little less frustrating to me.

Dick looks  _more_  than pleased with himself, and his gaze alternatively hoods so he can arch his throat back — putting on a show, of  _course_  — and flicks between my face, my body, and behind me. He's taking things slow too, completely unhurried. He  _knows_  that he's going to be there as long as Bruce still wants to explore, and that all of this is running on our partner's time table. Nothing I do will affect how soon Bruce is ready to move on, and I'm also damn sure that Bruce could spend a long time just touching me, and watching Dick. Him being done preparing himself won't make this move any faster either.

So he's taking it slow, enjoying himself, and I'm caught in the middle of all this. In the  _best_ kind of way, most of my mind insists, even though I could stand for one hell of a lot more actual touching.

When Bruce is done tracing the scars on my legs his hands firm, and his touch leaves the already written out paths of tissue to explore the rest of my skin. I've got  _no_  illusions that he misses even one of my miniscule reactions to the slightly more sensitive spots, that's what this is about, right? I haven't been here in too long, he hasn't touched me in far too long, and Bruce is possessive. He'll want to figure out exactly where I'm similar, where I'm different, and how my reactions might have changed over the years. He'll be watching, and listening,  _way_ too closely for me to slip anything past him.

Like the way my breath catches when his fingers trace over my ribs, or the way my hands flex and pull at the restraints when his fingers chance across sensitive bits of skin. He's standing closer now; I can feel the radiating heat from his frame where it's nearly pressed against my back, but he's not actually touching me with anything but his hands. Not yet anyway. Maybe he won't do it at all; my fantasy was a bit vague and he could take  _full_ advantage of that. I specified that he didn't touch anything important, but with just his fingers, or pressing all the way up against my back, or using his mouth…?

Well, that last one is going to happen. I predicted he'd want to mark me, right?

That thought makes me draw a sharp breath in, and I almost close my eyes and toss my head before remembering not to. It gets vented in a shudder instead, and Dick's eyes flash with something heated and satisfied all at once. Bruce gives a small sound of amusement that blows a breath out against the back of my neck, and I force my fingers loose from their tight grip around the metal loop. It's hard, and it takes me a few moments, but I  _make_ myself relax as much as I can. Being tense isn't going to do anything but tire me out, and I've got this sneaking suspicion that I'm going to need my strength for the rest of the night.

"That's good, Jason," Bruce murmurs, and the press of lips to the back of my right shoulder feels a bit like a reward. "Relax. We'll take care of you."

I still don't — can't — close my eyes, but the low rumble of words into my skin is more than enough to let me ease the rest of the way. This isn't any different than back in the jet, right? This is for Bruce's enjoyment, it all hinges on his orders, and I don't have anything to do but listen to his words and obey them. Watch Dick, stay mostly still, and let him touch me. Nothing else matters.

I let out a deep breath, and shift my shoulder back a little bit to press it against his mouth. Not hard, but enough for it to feel like a confirmation of my acceptance to some instinctive part of me. If the gentle press of his hands to my ribs, and the satisfied hum into my skin, are any indication, Bruce understands it.

His mouth parts like he's going to speak, and then I give a soft groan as his teeth close against my skin instead. Dick echoes my sound with a brighter, slightly louder one, and my gaze gets caught on the flex of muscle in his thighs as he rolls his hips up and arches his throat for a moment. The flash of fantasy, of  _memory_ , is sudden.

I remember what it feels like to be pressed down over Dick, to be inside him and with that throat close enough to be in easy reach. What it feels like to have his skin underneath my mouth, and his thighs around my waist.  _God_ , I want that again. Am I going to get the chance tonight? I didn't get that far in my fantasy, and even if I had, would Bruce have stuck to it? Will he? I got far enough into my speech to imply that Dick would fuck me — that's  _also_ one hell of an image, and a memory that I know will pale next to reliving it — and I'm pretty sure that Bruce will hold along my outline that far, but past it? Anything could happen.

I open my mouth to ask, to figure out what I'm in for, before clicking it shut again. No, take the blows as they come and just roll with them. Even if I asked, why would Bruce tell me? Better to keep me in suspense and not give me time to prepare. I'm not even sure that I really  _want_ to know; not knowing leaves me with an anticipatory buzz that I can't quite shake. I'm sure that knowing would be hot as hell, and I could look forward to what they're going to do to me, but on the other hand  _not_ knowing is one more way I'm at their mercy, and that's also arousing as  _fuck_.

Bruce's fingers explore my skin, and I swallow away any other questions lingering at the back of my throat and just enjoy. It's almost like Dick  _knows_ what I'm thinking — wouldn't be surprised if he picked up telepathy somewhere, honestly — because he gives me a very small nod and a smirk, like approval.

Then he slides a second finger inside himself with a satisfied groan, and my brain effectively short circuits. Bruce's hands become firm against my ribs, holding me still, and I have to clench my jaw for a moment to deal with watching Dick, and feeling Bruce paint marks up and down my back.

I keep  _trying_ to ground myself by pulling at the restraints and feeling the leather and the metal, but I should really just stop because it's  _not working_. Tugging against them, or pulling, just reminds me that they're there and that I'm strung up and efficiently trapped. Every time the leather pulls tight against my wrists, or the metal pieces rattle against themselves, it sends a thick lightning bolt down the center of my back to pool low in my stomach and add to the gathering arousal.

Hard? No, I was  _hard_ in the shower. What I am now needs a different word.

Bruce's hands shift, finally, to grip my hips instead. Long, strong fingers curling around the muscled jut of bone, fitting damn nearly perfectly. Then his mouth comes down high on the side of my ribs, and I have to strangle back a cry. My sides are sensitive, at least compared to the rest of me, and the heat of his tongue and graze of his teeth feels a hell of a lot more intense there than they did on my back or shoulders. I jerk against the cuffs — his hands hold the lower half of me mostly still, like he knew to expect my reaction and  _god_ he probably did — my eyes flickering closed for just half a moment before I snap them open again. Dick laughs like he noticed, but doesn't call me out on it.

My mind tries to map where he's biting, and give some kind of pattern to the bruises that are going to come up in a few hours. When it clicks, I give a burst of a laugh and a shudder.

"Going to look like a fucking leopard," I get out.

Bruce bites down  _hard_.

I jerk, hips pulling against his hold as I try and twist away from the pain of his teeth locking down into the skin just above my hip. Not that I get anywhere, not even when I give a cry that's startled and a wordless protest. He doesn't ease his grip, or his teeth, until a moment has passed, and then it's only sort of. His left hand slides firmly up my spine and curls in my hair,  _yanking_ my head back and forcing my throat to arch. I lose sight of Dick, my back curves in an arch, and a fraction of a second later I can feel Bruce's breath, hot against my throat.

"Forget a word, Jason?" he says softly, and the reaction clicks in my head.

"Wasn't talking to you," I manage, against the pressure of my arched throat, and stress the added, " _sir_."  _God_ , saying that word still makes me shiver a little bit.

"Technicalities aren't your game," Bruce points out. "And unless you're talking to one of us, I don't want to hear anything from you but reactions, understand?"

"So you're all for me shouting curses?" is what comes out of my mouth, automatically challenging, and it's only when his teeth sink into the meat of my shoulder that my mistake is apparent. " _Fuck!_  Sir,  _sir_." He lets go, and I shudder and draw in a sharp breath.

"I'll have to punish you for that," he comments, almost sounding satisfied. The hand not holding my head back trails up my side, and the sound that comes out of my mouth is embarrassingly close to a whimper. "Bring your legs together." I obey, pulling my feet beneath me and away from the spread, which takes my weight off my arms and makes me breath easier for just a moment.

Until his hand slides down my side and hip and gets a grip on my thigh, pulling my right leg up off the ground. I adjust my weight to balance, and force myself to let him do what he wants to. He raises it up and then puts my foot down to brace on the top of the wood-covered footboard. It's about waist high on me, so it's not any kind of a stretch. He lets go of my thigh, sliding his hand around the top to stroke down the top of my leg, to my knee.

"Dick, come here." His words are quiet, but with no other real sounds in the room it's still loud enough to easily be heard.

Bruce doesn't let my throat relax from the arch he's put it in, holding my head back far enough that there's no way I can see anything. I know Dick is moving, because I can hear the crinkle and shuffle of fabric, but my gaze is limited to the ceiling and the top of the frame where my hands are trapped. Bruce's hand slips to the inside of my knee, and pulls it to the side, shifting where my foot is braced until my leg is nearly all the way out to the side.

"What have you got in mind?" Dick asks, his voice heated with what I recognize as lust, but bright with anticipation.

Bruce's fingers trail across the inside of my thigh, and I shudder as they come within about an inch of my groin, which is competing with the hand in my hair as the focus of my attention. "We were in the middle of leaving Jason with a few new marks," he comments. "Bite him, Dick. Here," his fingers tap a few inches in from my knee, "here, here," two more taps, at equally spaced intervals farther in, "and here." The last one is only about an inch and a half in from my groin, and my mouth goes a little dry at the thought of a bite in such a tender spot.

"Woah," I protest, "wait—"

Bruce's hand pulls hard at my hair, silencing me long enough for him to say, "Hush, Jason. Dick, be nice. It's not about pain." His fingers lock around my knee, and I know by the grip that there's  _no_ way I'm going to be able to move without his permission. Not enough for it to matter. Lips press to the side of my arched throat, and Bruce's voice lowers. "I remember your boundaries, Jason. You're going to stay absolutely still for me, understand?"

"Yes, sir." Alright; okay. So long as this isn't a game of 'let Dick bite and see how bad we can make it hurt,' I'm alright.

Dick's fingers trace across my skin, up my thigh and then back down, and I can feel his breath on the first of the spots Bruce indicated as he gives a soft laugh. "Nice, huh? Only for you, Bruce."

"Of course," Bruce answers, like it's a fact that everyone should know that Dick will only  _ever_ curb himself at the command of our partner. Or me, I guess, though mine would definitely be asking, not a command. I think if I tried to pull any of the same commands that Bruce does, Dick would have me on my back about as fast as humanly possible. "Take your time."

Lips touch my skin, followed after a moment by the graze of teeth and the flick of a tongue. I hold myself still, not that there's much I could move with Bruce holding me like he is. Bruce's mouth is pressing along my throat; soft, chaste touches that really don't do anything to distract from Dick's mouth on my thigh. It's a long way from soft, but Dick  _does_ take his time. It's probably the least painful mark he's ever made on me, because he takes so long rolling the skin between his teeth and sucking as opposed to biting. I'm still sure it's going to be a large, dark patch of bruising tomorrow.

Then he presses a trail of slightly nipping kisses over to the next spot. I try and fail to repress a slight shiver; I think I'm starting to get why this is a punishment.

Dick's head is  _right there_ , next to everything that I'd really rather his mouth be focused on, and I am  _totally_ sure that he's not going to touch any of it. The bites to my inner thigh feel good, and the mental is  _seriously_ contributing to the steadily rising arousal in my gut, but there's not going to be a payoff in the end. Bruce isn't even letting me move and react to it; he's forcing me to keep that locked down too. It's a tease, and even though it's pushing  _me_ higher, it's not advancing the actual time table at all. Neither of them is going to let me get off until they  _want_ me to.

Oh  _hell_.

"Remember," Bruce murmurs in my ear, "stay  _still_ , Jason. You can do that for me, can't you?"

I can feel the vibration as Dick laughs into my skin, and I swallow. "Lot to ask, sir," I manage. "I'll try." I'm not insane enough to promise something that I might not be able to deliver, and promising to stay still while Dick's head is between my legs is  _really_  one of those things. If I did promise, I know that Dick would do his  _very_ best to make me break it. His very best is probably a hell of a lot better than my restraint could get me through.

I'm good, but I'm not  _that_ good.

Bruce chuckles, fingers massaging my knee for just a moment like he's actually proud that I'm not stupid enough to promise him that. "Fair enough." His hand loosens in my hair, combing through it for a moment before he pushes my head forward and down. It exposes the back of my neck to him — and his mouth immediately presses down against it — but I don't think that's the main— "Then I suppose you should go back to watching, shouldn't you, Jason?"

_Fuck_.

I drag my eyes open, and Dick meets my downwards gaze with slightly narrowed blue eyes and the curve of his mouth against my skin. I swallow, and strangle back a groan. Feeling him down between my legs is one thing, but  _seeing_ it? That's a whole different level, and  _really_ not fair.

"I suppose if you  _do_ manage to stay still," Bruce says, conversationally, "that would deserve a reward." I can't hold back the groan, partly because  _Dick_  but mostly because that is so manipulative and just  _not fair_.

"Define 'still,' sir." My voice comes out with an odd mix of frustrated denial and resignation, and Dick sucks a little harder at my skin for a moment. Still on that second spot and  _fuck_ he's got two more to go.

Bruce's free hand slides down my left side, fingers curled so his blunt nails graze along my skin. "Mmm, I suppose you could be allowed to move your hands, and obviously you can breathe. I'm not going to count involuntary movement, but anything apart from that would count."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir," because I  _still_ know better than to actually promise anything. I am  _not_  giving Dick a reason to be even more focused than he already is, or give him a reason to try and  _make_  me move. I'm not that dumb, suicidal, and as has been covered I'm  _not_  masochistic. I'm not going to challenge Dick like that; I know better.

He pulls back, blowing a breath out against my skin that feels chilly in comparison to the wet heat of his mouth and tongue. Then he gives a small laugh, followed by a pleased hum. "Not moving? Can't have  _that_."

Shit, too late I guess. He's already taken it as the challenge I really didn't want to make it. Well, now I'm just plain old fucked. Literally, that I'm sure of. Even if it doesn't happen when I said that it would — after Dick is done opening himself, and then finished with me — I know that there's absolutely no way that either of them would let this night go by without fucking me. At least once each, but I'd bet more.

I also  _really_ doubt this is just going to be a night. I don't think that Dick and Bruce are going to be satisfied with just a single night after the years we've been separated. I don't think I'm going to be moving farther than the bathroom for at least a couple of days. I think I'm actually way more than alright with that.

I want to remember every single thing about the two of them. I want to memorize whatever new scars they've gained. I want to be able to name, in a moment, all of their sensitive spots and precisely how they best like to be touched. I want to remember and learn  _everything_ about them, and burn it into my mind so I'll never forget. I'm not going to be able to do that in just a single night, not with the attention focused on me like this. I need to be able to study them, explore, and have the freedom to touch where and what I want to.

I'll need some time to do that, especially if they keep me bound or held down for awhile. I'm pretty sure that at some point this is going to calm down to something much more basic, and I'll be able to do all of that then. This is good — no, this is fucking  _fantastic_  — but if I don't get the chance to just lie next to or on top of Dick and fuck him normally at some point, I'm going to be pretty disappointed.

They can't expect me to be this for them all the time, right? I mean, equality was the point of this. If they think I'm going to set aside nice, normal sex for this instead,  _all_ the time, I'll just have to correct them. I want that normalcy too, not just this. I want to be able to roll over on a lazy morning and share kisses and slow, easy sex.

Bruce has to know that.

I  _remember_ back when the three of us were together before I died, and I remember those mornings. When it would be the three of us in a bed, or just two with one of them called away on business. The sun warm on my back, and either Dick or Bruce still half-asleep but pulled close to me. When their sharp edges were all worn down with the haze of sleep, and sex was a slow, lazy roll of a thing, not a rush or a drive. There was still passion, but it was never hard or rough in the mornings.

None of us were ever eager to leave the bed, or to leave the warm, wonderful feeling of still being partially asleep and very comfortable. That's an indulgence that I'm pretty sure everyone like us enjoys. When you work all night, and run things as massive as what the Crime Syndicate does, I don't think  _anyone_ is ever eager to get out of bed the morning after. At least not unless something momentous or seriously tempting is happening.

Like, say, two extremely attractive men who I get to call  _mine_.

Dick finds the third spot on my thigh, and sets to work. I manage to keep more or less still through it, but only with the aid of wrapping my fingers around the metal loops holding me up and  _straining_ my arms. This would have been so much easier if I didn't have to watch him work, but I know the point of this is not to be easy — a small, hysterical part of my mind laughs and says:  _or soft_ — for me.

The fourth is a  _lot_ harder, in more ways than one. Dick's head is only a couple inches from my cock, and I can feel and see the smirk curving his mouth as he works. The skin is  _really_ sensitive that high up, and Dick takes full advantage of it. I do shudder a few times, and I  _definitely_ make some noise, but I — barely — manage to keep myself from jerking, or pulling on anything but the metal above me, or moving towards or away from his mouth. Mostly because the idea of a  _reward_ , from the two of them, is one hell of a motivator.

I have no  _idea_ what it might be — though I've got some vague thoughts in my head that would be  _amazing_  — but I know it'll be worth it. Carrot and the stick, right? One has to be just as motivating as the other or it doesn't work right.

Finally, Dick pulls away from my thigh. The way he glances sideways at my cock, licks his lips, and then flashes me a wicked smirk nearly undoes me and ruins all of my hard work, but I keep it in check. A strangled groan still leaves my throat, but I count that as victory enough. Bruce's hand loosens on my knee, then gently hooks underneath it and lifts my leg so he can set my foot back down on the ground. I stay still; he hasn't said anything different and I'm  _not_ ruining this now. Not with a stupid mistake like that. Dick sits back on his heels, teeth still slightly bared and looking  _very_ pleased with himself.

Bruce's lips press against the back of my neck, the kiss soft and lingering, and strokes his hands up my sides. "You can move," he says quietly, and I nearly collapse against the restraints in relief. The hands at my sides take some of my weight, and Bruce presses up against my back. His left arm loops around my waist, his right grips just above my hip, and his lips graze the side of my throat.

I keep Dick's gaze, but I also ease into Bruce's touch and the solidity of his frame. I trust him to take my weight, and to keep me standing even if my legs give out. They're not going to, I'm not  _that_ far gone, but just in case. It's nice to have someone at my back that I trust.

"What do you think, Dick?" Bruce asks, over my shoulder. I can feel him breathing against my back, and all I really want to do is lean my head back onto his shoulder and relax. Not now, not yet. I haven't been given permission to look away from Dick yet.

Dick's smirk widens a touch, and he gives an artfully careless shrug. "It looked good to me," he answers, glancing back behind me. "You?"

Bruce gives a thoughtful hum of sound, and then his lips brush the side of my ear. "I think that was well done, Jason." His voice isn't anything more than a murmur,  _right_ into my ear. Probably  _just_ loud enough for Dick to hear. "You stayed within my constraints; not an easy thing to do in this case. You've earned a reward."

Dick's gaze flicks down, dragging along my body, before returning to meet my eyes again. "Have something specific in mind?" I really,  _really_ don't miss the way his gaze lingers on my cock a few fractions of a second longer than anywhere else. I swallow, and have to suppress something like a whine. "I could think of a few things."

Bruce gives a soft laugh. "I'm sure you could. Yes, I have something specific in mind. Not right now, though, it's for later." I shiver, and his hand squeezes almost reassuringly on my side. Oh, I really didn't need  _reassurance_ ; that was all  _heat_. "Are you prepared?"

Dick's mouth parts for just a moment, eyes dark and  _blazing_  with lust, before he flashes a small grin. "Enough."

Bruce moves slowly at first; enough that I can support my own weight and adjust before he's pulled away from me. His hand trails across my back as he steps away, and I can see the flick of his hand beckoning Dick off the bed and over to him. Of course, Dick  _happily_  obliges.

I watch him shift and roll his weight off the bed, standing gracefully. Bruce steps right up against him, gathering him into a kiss that knocks the breath out of me. Dick's weight is rolled up on his toes to give him about an extra inch of height, his arms sliding around Bruce's back and gripping handfuls of the tank top. Bruce's right hand curls in his hair, pulling him up a little harder, and his left slides down Dick's spine. I strangle back a moan as I watch Bruce's fingers slip down between the cheeks of Dick's ass, two pressing inwards because of  _course_  Bruce made sure they were at just the right angle for me to see that.

Bruce's fingers work for a moment — Dick gives a quiet moan that's mostly muffled — and then he pulls back from the kiss and arches an eyebrow, a small smirk twisting one corner of his mouth. "Enough?" he repeats, sounding a little sarcastic. "For what, our smallest toys?"

"You weren't specific," Dick points out, "and you stopped things early."

Bruce's shoulders roll in a silent message for Dick to release his grip, which the shortest member of our trio understands immediately, and then he tilts his head towards me. "Let's get Jason down from there."

I stop myself, barely, from saying anything stupid that might get that decision revoked. Even though I want to say something to the effects of, 'thank  _god_ ,' I just swallow and hold myself still instead.  _Not_  jeopardizing this. I want down, and I want out of these cuffs, and I want to be able to touch both of them. Now would be awesome, but I'd settle for just being allowed to actually press up against them and be part of everything. Being strung up here has been amazing — though I should have told Dick something equally hot and  _way_  less based around me getting frustratingly aroused — but I want to be down with them.

The two of them head for me, Dick slipping into the small slice of space between me and the foot of the bed while Bruce loops around my back. Consequently, Dick is pressed close and tight against me, which feels  _amazing_ , with one leg nudging insistently between mine. The pressure against me is incredible, and if I had just a little more slack in the cuffs I'd lean down and kiss him. If I tried right now my neck would have to bend uncomfortably far forward if he didn't decide to meet me halfway. I can hold off. But the second these are off of me, I'm kissing him.  _Especially_ considering the way his hands are playing down my sides, tracing patterns between the marks Bruce left on me, and the way his skin is sliding along mine.

Bruce's hands touch my upper arms, trace upwards to the cuffs, and his right grips just underneath the leather around my right wrist. I can hear the touch of metal to metal, then the click of a lock, and finally the pressure holding my wrists up and together disappears. A moment later, Bruce releases his grip on my right wrist and lets me lower them. The cuffs are still around my wrists, but they were only incidentally hooked to each other and my hands and arms are free to move.

I  _immediately_ reach down and cup either side of Dick's face, dragging him up into a kiss. He gives a bright laugh into the press of my mouth, but meets me wholeheartedly. I can feel his left hand circle my back, and slip lower to grip my ass and pull me in against the pressure of his leg. I gasp out something like a curse as he manually rocks me against his leg, raking my fingers back through his hair and getting a good grip on it. Then there's a hand in  _my_ hair, and Bruce is firmly pulling me away from the kiss.

I give a sound of protest, but release my grip and don't fight him. His body presses up against my back again, and he pulls my head back far enough to rest on his shoulder. Dick slowly lets go, pulling back about an inch and giving me just a bit of breathing room. Breathing room I really didn't  _want_. I want Dick to take a half-step forward and push me tight between the two of them. I want to be held and contained between their bodies, their mouths, their  _hands_.

"Dick, on your back on the bed." Bruce's voice is a low command, and Dick might smirk for a moment but he obeys the order. He loops around the side of the bed and then all but sprawls onto it. Legs spread wide, arms above his head, back arching just a little bit. Showing off.

Bruce slowly, but firmly, pushes me forward and down. Until he has me pressed down over the foot of the bed, my hands curling in the sheets and his hand holding my head down. Then his hand releases its grip and slides down my back, following the line of my spine. He's right up against my ass, and I close my eyes for just a second at the feeling of his erection pressing up against me. Add that to the list of things I really want; Bruce inside me.

I remember the way he fucks, and it tightens up my throat and dries my mouth out all at once.

Slow, deep, and powerful. I remember feeling like it was some kind of magic how he could just go, and go, and  _go_. Of course, now I really get that it's just a case of his experience at controlling himself, and the fact that I was a teenager at the time. That doesn't mean that the thought of Bruce sliding inside me, gripping my hips just  _this_ side of too tight, and pushing in to bottom out each time doesn't shorten my breath.  _God_ , I can just imagine how it would feel, and I know that my imagination doesn't hold a goddamn candle to the real thing.

I can picture him leaning over my back, his mouth pressing kisses to my shoulder blades as I clutch at the sheets. I can picture his hips rolling in long, slow thrusts that don't change no matter how I plead. Not until he's ready for them to. Until he's decided that I've had enough — I remember trembling in the times before I died, my muscles already exhausted from the strain of both of their games — and he's satisfied. Then, and  _only_ then, will he pull my hips to a better angle and use all of that  _power_. It's like nothing else.

"Stay there," Bruce says quietly, and I almost snort. Like I have  _any_  intention of going anywhere. Apart from the slight discomfort of the board at the foot of the bed digging into my stomach, this is an absolutely wonderful position. "Dick, return to what you were doing.  _All_ the way this time." There's gentle, amused reproach in Bruce's voice, but it doesn't phase Dick in the slightest.

I watch him reach for the discarded bottle of lube, uncap it, and then slick his fingers. Then Bruce must make some kind of gesture because after he snaps it shut again, he tosses it in an underhanded throw. It doesn't hit me, so Bruce must catch it and the implications make me shudder and squirm a little bit.

" _Fuck_ ," I breathe out, and Bruce gives an amused sound.

"That's the intention, yes." One of his knees nudges my legs apart, and I follow the order and spread them wide enough that he can slip between them. Then a little farther, because  _god_  I want this. "It's a good show, but you can stop watching Dick, Jason. I won't force you to divide your attention like that." I can hear the cap of the bottle click shut, and I swallow down another curse and twist the sheets in my fingers. It  _does_ feel good to turn my head down and bury it somewhat. It makes me feel grounded.

Right up until Bruce's fingers, slick with lube, touch my entrance. Then my stomach tightens, as do all the muscles in my legs, and Bruce gives a soft laugh.

"Relax," he orders, his free hand kneading into the side of my hip. It mostly works, and one of Bruce's fingers slowly breaches me. I force myself to breathe evenly, to remember that even though it feels strange it'll be fucking  _amazing_  later, and that Bruce won't rush this. I know he won't.

Dick gives a laugh that sounds heated, and is sharp with an edge of desire that was much less obvious just minutes ago. "You know, it slipped my mind in everything that's happened, but Jason told me something  _interesting_ , Bruce." Oh,  _hell_. This could be really good or really bad. I've told Dick a  _lot_  of things, and most of them weren't in front of Bruce. I have no idea what got passed along to him.

"What's that?" Bruce asks, as his free hand slips upwards from my hip to wrap around the back of my neck and keep me down. If I was planning any kind of protest — I hadn't even gotten that far into thinking about it — that efficiently kills it. Words desert me pretty much completely.

My eyes squeeze shut, mouth parting to breathe in, as Dick answers, "He told me that it isn't just other people, he hasn't even fucked  _himself_  since he left us."  _Oh_. "Not once, not with anything."

Bruce's movements still, his fingers contracting on the back of my neck. There's silence for a moment — except for the faint noises of whatever Dick is doing with his own fingers — and then I can  _feel_  Bruce shudder.  _That_  steals my breath, and I open my eyes and twist my head to look back at him. His eyes are closed, jaw clenched tight, and he's  _perfectly_  still. In other words, he looks like he's resisting doing something drastic and  _really_  intense.

Finally his eyes flick back open, and they're dark and slightly narrowed when they look down at me. "Is that true?" he asks me, voice equally dark and with a note of  _tight_  control.

I shift my head in something like a nod, and manage to get out, "Yes, sir." I had reasons, but considering the second shudder and the sharp inhalation, I don't think they matter.

I can  _see_ him forcibly ease the tension in his shoulders, and his eyes flick open as he rolls and slides the single finger inside of me. My eyes close for a moment in response, as I just  _feel_  it. His hand loosens on the back of my neck, before I can feel him lean down over me. His lips graze the back of my right shoulder, press firmly for a moment, and then he's pulling away again.

"That's good to know," he says quietly, and  _god_ I can hear the raw  _hunger_ in his voice. "I'll make sure you're stretched properly." It's an obvious promise, and it  _does_  make me relax a little more. I knew he would, I  _knew_  Bruce would never risk hurting me somewhere that delicate and mood-ruining, but it's still nice to hear it.

I let myself ease into the bed, into the feeling, and into the sounds from Dick. It's an awkward angle to watch from here, and like Bruce said, I  _really_  don't want to divide my attention like that. I'm sure Dick is goddamn  _gorgeous_ , and that the sight of him fucking himself open on his own fingers, from this close, is unlike anything else, but I can't spare that much attention. I want to focus on the feeling of Bruce's fingers, and every tiny sensation from them as he twists, pushes, and slides inside me. I want to feel every catch of his knuckles on my rim, and the slightly different scrape of his blunt nail instead of the pad of his fingers. I want to  _feel_ every moment where his long finger reaches deep enough to press down and graze against the edge of my prostate, and the strange, intense,  _wonderful_  pleasure of it.

I let my own noises out, twist my fingers in the sheets to vent what I can't with sound, and shift back into Bruce's touch. It isn't anything like silence, but apart from small commands and comments from Bruce the three of us don't say anything to each other. Bruce only speaks to remind me to relax, and to make small, almost  _proud_ comments about how well I'm taking this, considering I haven't taken anything in years. Without fail, each one makes me twist a little bit and give him a slightly louder sound than the rest.

Two fingers, three, and then finally Bruce stops and leans over me again. I give a noise that's embarrassingly close to a whine at him stopping the movement of his fingers, and he gives a slightly strained sounding chuckle and presses his lips to one of the top knobs of my spine. It's small, reassuring, and he stays pressed down over me. I'm pretty sure that he rests his forehead against my back for a moment too.

"Dick," he says, in a rumble of a voice that  _screams_ restraint and desire. "What we agreed on."

I can hear Dick move, obeying whatever command  _that_ vague statement is, and Bruce presses another kiss to the muscle over my spine. I can hear the drawer of what has to be the nightstand open, the rattle of objects, and then it shuts again. I almost open my eyes before I recognize the very slight sound of Dick settling his weight onto the carpet and heading down towards the two of us. Bruce's fingers tighten on my neck for just a second, and then he pushes up from me and his hand lets me go. His fingers leave me at the same moment, and I twist and groan at the sudden lack of both his heat and the touch that was holding me open. I can feel myself flex closed and then open again automatically, and Bruce's clean hand smooths over my hip.

"Stay still, Jason," he orders, and I shiver a little bit. "Dick."

There's the click of the lube bottle, and I  _almost_ disobey and turn to look before I force myself not to. I hear it click shut. Then, there's the press of something to the outside of me. It slides in easily, eased by lube and my stretched muscles, and I drag in a sharp breath.

It's not one of them — not hot, long, or thick enough — but it's the right shape. Firm, mostly unyielding, and whichever one of them is pushing it into me does it slowly and steadily so I can feel every inch. It's big enough to feel good, and when it's finally in all the way I clench down on the slightly narrower portion. I can feel a base pressing against the outside of me, and I clench my hands tighter and struggle to obey Bruce's order to stay still. It's not moving, which is helping, but the feeling is something I'm not used to anymore. It's good, but it's also making me tense and relax unconsciously and that's forcing me to feel all of it every time I clench. It's just a little maddening.

We've gone  _completely_ off my script, and  _damn_ if I care.

A hand that's too small to be Bruce's traces up my back, lingering at the points that I know are either red or already starting to bruise. Dick gives a noise that's half desire and half satisfaction. "I'd forgotten how good you look spread around something, little wing." His hand clenches in my hair, tugs for just a moment, and then lets go and reverses direction to sweep down my spine. "Better around something  _real_  of course, but this is good for now."

His fingers catch at the base of whatever toy is in me, rocking it out about an inch and then back in. I give an involuntary jerk and a loud sound I can't  _quite_ call a cry, and Dick gives a laugh that shakes a little bit in answer. He lets go of the toy, and then there are two large hands —  _Bruce_ — on my hips, holding me steady.

"Easy, Jason." His voice is pitched low, soft. "You can move; go ahead."

With the permission given it's like a wall comes down in my head.

I give a harder shiver, and then the dam breaks completely. I arch my back and throat, my hands twisting into the sheets and pushing. Then the arch collapses on itself and I brace on one elbow with the other arm outstretched and pushing my shoulder high into the air. I duck my head beneath myself, brace my forehead against the sheets, and give a sound that's almost a  _keen_.

"God,  _fuck_." I can't buck or twist my hips like I want to, not with Bruce's hands holding them still, but I still strain against the grip. "Please," I beg, into the space between my chest and the bed, " _please_."

I don't even know exactly what I'm begging for, but I need  _something_. I need—

"We have you," Bruce promises, and then he's letting go of my hips and pulling me up off the bed. His arms wrap around my chest and he presses tight against my back. Dick's hands catch mine, and he doesn't press up against me but he's still right there, his head lowering to press soft kisses along the left side of my throat and down to my shoulder.

"Please," I repeat, grasping at Dick's hands like they're my only lifeline. "I—  _Fuck_."

"It's alright," Bruce murmurs in my ear, holding my weight like it's nothing. "Jason, do you remember your reward?"

"Yes," I answer, and then immediately correct myself. "Yes,  _sir_."

"Good. We're getting to that. Can you breathe for me?" It must be rhetorical, because he doesn't give me any time to answer before his arms are loosening around my chest and he's ordering me to, "Lean your head back against my shoulder." I do, after just a bit of struggle. "Now, inhale. Slowly, Jason.  _Slowly_."

I shudder, squeezing down a little tighter on Dick's hands and shutting my eyes. I have to  _focus_ , I have to get enough control of myself back to be able to do what he wants. Somehow, I manage to get myself together enough that I can pull in a slow, deep breath. I expect him to drag it out, make me fill my lungs completely and almost painfully before he lets me release it, but he doesn't.

"Exhale," he commands, when my lungs are only partially full. I pause for a moment, startled, but then let it go. My grip eases on Dick's hands, and a corner of my mind laughs nearly hysterically at the realization that this control of my breathing is an effective way to calm me down.

Years of training make it  _automatic_  to relax into Bruce's voice, and his touch, and focus on nothing more but the next command. It's ingrained, it's conditioned behavior, and  _damn_ if it isn't effective.

Dick's hands tug themselves out of my grip and stroke up my arms. To my shoulders, down my sides and then just resting at my waist as I breathe at Bruce's word. Until he murmurs, "Breathe normally," and punctuates it with a brush of lips just below my ear. The relaxation doesn't go away with my freedom, and I blindly reach up to wrap the fingers of my right hand around one of Bruce's lower arms, and the left around Dick's wrist.

Dick gives a soft, satisfied little hum and then pulls his head back. His wrist twists out of my loose grip, but then he immediately grasps my hand with his own, his fingers interlacing with mine. "Better, little wing?" he asks, raising my hand high enough that he can press his lips to it.

I give a small nod, and then verbally answer, "Yeah."

Bruce makes a satisfied noise that is significantly less soft than Dick's was, and his grip around my chest eases so he can stroke his hands down my sides to my hips. I can feel his right hand find Dick's, and feel their fingers interlace over my skin. "Ready for your reward, Jason?"

That drives a small shiver from me. "Yes, sir," I manage, as I try to not betray how much I am  _so_ ready for whatever he has in mind. Bruce has a  _really_ good handle on my behavior and my reactions — this breathing thing being the obvious example — and if he thinks something is a reward, I'm  _damn_ sure it's going to be amazing.

The amused sound that leaves him is proof he's really not fooled by me. His shoulder lifts beneath my head, a silent order for me to lift it, and I do. I blink my eyes open to find Dick, who looks soft and hungry all at once. But only a little bit like he might eat me alive at any given moment, and really that's just an air that always clings to Dick. Not even at his softest is he not also  _dangerous_.

"Dick," Bruce starts, in a low rumble of sound, "on the bed, elbows and knees."

Dick looks startled for a brief moment, but then his mouth curves in a wicked grin and he laughs. "Oh, is  _that_ it?" He leans in to catch my mouth in a kiss, and then pulls away just before I can really get the reaction together to kiss him back. "Guess that's fair," he aims over my shoulder, at Bruce.

It takes me another moment, as he pulls his hands away from me and turns to slip around the edge of the bed, to put things together. I blame all of the distraction for my delayed reaction because really there's just about  _one_ thing that would count as a reward for me that would involve Dick on his hands and knees. Especially considering I  _know_ that Dick is already open and prepared.

Bruce must feel the moment of tension as I realize it, because his thumbs rub small circles into my hips as he says, "Yes, that's right. You did  _very_ well, Jason, and you've been very good. Dick is your reward." His fingers trace up my sides as I try not to react too  _loudly_ to that. The breathing thing might have calmed me down from the nearly frantic state, but it sure as hell didn't make me any less hard. "It was going to happen some time tonight, of course, but moving it up the timetable seemed appropriate as a reward. On the bed behind him, Jason."

With that final order, Bruce lets go and steps away from me. It takes me a second to balance my own weight and control my own reaction enough to move, but I manage it. I glance back at him, briefly, and then follow Dick's path around the bed. He's sitting in the center of it, watching me approach with a smirk twisting his lips. The movement and  _feeling_ of whatever's in me is distracting as hell, but not  _nearly_ enough to make me stop moving towards him. Distraction, versus getting to fuck  _Dick?_ Yeah, not a contest.

When I shift onto the bed he flashes me a sharp grin and slides — every fucking inch of him predatory grace — to his knees, his back arching as he sinks down onto his elbows and ducks his head down. On  _anyone_ else it would look like surrender. On Dick, it looks like something dangerous showing off how good it looks to lure me closer, so that the  _moment_ I'm in range it can spring. Not true, of course, but god it  _looks_ that way.

I move closer and reach out to touch one of his hips, tracing my fingers down the line of his leg as I shift to where Bruce told me to be. Behind Dick, with his legs spread enough for me to fit between them and the fucking  _beautiful_ arch of his back in front of me. My breath catches, and Dick obviously purposefully  _flexes_. I can see his muscles tighten and then release in a wave of motion, including the furled ring of muscle that's my reward. It's enough to knock what little breath I had right back out of me.

I manage to wrench my gaze away when the bed shifts, and Bruce sinks down to sit at the head of it. His legs are long and stretched out, and I can see the tent of the fabric above his crotch. He reaches down to slide his fingers through Dick's hair, just barely tugging at it, and Dick leans up into the touch. Not enough to actually bring him off the bed, but enough that he's pushing up into Bruce's hand like a satisfied cat.

Bruce's lips curl in a small smile, and then he looks up at me. "The lube is behind you," he points out, and it takes a second for that to really register in my head. Then I twist back and grab for the bottle leaning up against the footboard of the bed. It's just within my reach, and I bring it back next to my thigh.

I open it before pausing, looking up at Bruce. "Condoms, sir?"

He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head a bit to one side. "We've never used them between the three of us before. Not at home." I must look unconvinced, or wary — I've been gone a  _long_ time, and this isn't just preference it's  _safety_ — because Bruce's smile falls so he's serious. "Jason, you're clean and so are we. I've run all the tests already; if you were anything but clean, I would have told you. I wouldn't risk any of us like that. There are no diseases to pass, and obviously pregnancy is not a concern," Dick snorts, "so it's alright. If you want them we do have them, and it won't change anything. But I would  _like_ the satisfaction of sex between the three of us without a barrier."

His mouth curls again, into a smirk that's heated enough to make me swallow. "And when I pin you down and fuck you, Jason, I want you to  _feel_ me come inside of you." My throat tightens, cutting off  _any_ kind of reply I might have had. "I want to be able to pull out of you and watch it slide down your thigh. I might decide to push one of our toys back in you and keep it there until one of us is ready to fuck you again and add to it. So you could feel it during the time between, and know every  _second_ that we've claimed you."

Dick gives a low, restrained laugh that sounds like he's a step away from spinning in place and slamming me down to fuck me instead. I'm really not sure that I'd even struggle for more than a second if he did. God, Bruce's words are like lightning spinning down my spine. They— I—

"Just  _fuck_  me, Jason," Dick almost snarls. " _Now_."

I'm moving to obey before I really consciously register the words, but once I do register them I just let myself continue. I swallow away the last, tiny, lingering doubts in my head. I  _trust_ Bruce, and his words, and I know he would never risk our safety like that. If he says he ran tests — whenever the hell he had time to do  _that_  — then he did, and we're all healthy. Of all the things to be concerned about, this isn't the one that's really important right now. Yes, safe sex is important and even with my limited experience I  _know_  that, but I trust the two of them with my life and more.

This is alright.

I slick my cock with some of the lube — the touch makes me clench my teeth to bite back a moan — and then click the bottle shut and set it carefully back down at the end of the bed. Out of the way, just in case. Then I grip Dick's hip with my left hand, myself with the other, and push forward.

Dick did a good job, and I ease in what feels like effortlessly. Part of it is definitely that Dick stays open and relaxed, pliant beneath my hands as I sink into him. My head tilts back and I grip Dick's other hip with my now free hand, flexing my fingers over the muscle as I bottom out inside him. He gives a low moan, his back arching down, and nearly the same noise rips itself from my throat in response. I force myself to look down, along the line of his back and to the contrast of Bruce's fingers in his black hair. I have to brace myself for a second, and then I look up at Bruce.

He meets my gaze, gives a smile that looks approving, and nods. "Move, Jason. Enjoy your reward; no need to ask permission."

Dick gives another small laugh, this one sounding significantly more breathless. " _Move_ ," he demands, pressing back against me, "or I'll flip us and ride you, little wing."

I flex my fingers again, take a short, deep breath to steady myself, and obey.

Dick feels  _incredible_. I knew he would, I  _remembered_ that he did, but memory and fantasies don't mean a fucking thing compared to the original. He's hot around me, tight now that he's stopped forcing himself to relax and be loose. It's like a slice of heaven, and the way that he moves beneath me, the way that he  _sounds_ , is unbelievable. He's unrestrained and passionate, moving with me and against me all at once. Every thrust I give, he matches.

It takes me a little bit to ease back into all of it. To remember  _exactly_ the kind of pace and strength that Dick likes; what makes him give the loudest noises and clench the tightest. Giving some of my attention to that lets me hold out for a while, which is a damn good thing. I have control, but I don't have  _this_ kind of control. I damn well don't have what I'd need to be able to do what I remember Bruce being able to, or to resist the siren call of Dick being underneath me. The best I can do is postpone for a while, and I try my  _damndest_ to last as long as I can. Not that it makes all that much of a difference

I've been aroused for a long time now, and I can feel that I'm not going to last nearly as long as I'd like to. Of course, since 'as long as I'd like to' is fucking  _forever_ , that doesn't mean much. What it does mean is that I have to make quick plans for how to get Dick off before I do. I know Bruce would take care of him, or  _I_ would, but I'm not enough of a bastard to just take my own pleasure without making sure he's satisfied too.

So I lean down over him, pressing my chest to his back and my lips to his skin. He arches up against me with a pleased groan, and I close my eyes against his shoulder and let go of his right hip. Reaching down to wrap my fingers around him feels natural, and the weight of him in my hand is just like I remember. But  _real_ , intense, hot, and hard. It takes a minute for me to get the strokes right, in counterpoint to my hips so that when I'm pulling back I'm stroking up the length of him, but that clicks in just like any other piece of muscle memory.

He shudders underneath me when I get it right, bucking forward and then back again as he twists. I can feel his right hand grasp at my shoulder as he reaches up. Then he gets a grip in my hair, holding me to him. His nails are just barely scratching along my scalp, but it's such a minor pain that I just ignore it. I keep my breathing as steady as I can, and my pace, and concentrate on every noise and twitch he gives. So I can figure out  _exactly_ what the best way to touch him is, and what makes him react the loudest, or the most instinctively.

My attention gets rewarded when I feel him give a thick shudder and then tense for a moment, going rigid before he twists and moans. It's not quite him coming, but it's  _damn_ close. The best part is that it reassures me that the cresting wave I can feel building in my lower stomach, threatening what little control I have, isn't going to be disappointing.

Dick's hands tugs in my hair as he arches forward into the bed, and then nearly  _writhes_. He cries out, goes rigid a second time, and I can feel the throb and pulse of him in my hand. Wet warmth catches the edge of my fingers, and I slow just a touch to work him through it. It takes gritting my teeth and burying my head against his back, but I manage to not turn my pace hard and frantic. At least not until he eases out and gives a long, low, moan of satisfaction.  _Then_ I abandon any hope of control.

I let go of Dick's cock and reestablish my grip on his hips, snapping my hips in. It's rougher than I should be, harder, and it's not more than chasing my own release, but he doesn't complain or stop me. I fuck him, my pace fast and deep, and it's the clench of him around me that does me in. I gasp and then give a shout that's muffled into his back, giving a few more stuttering thrusts as I spill inside of him. He squirms a little bit as he gives another moan, and I force myself to ease my grip on his hips and the hard press of my body against his ass.

I pant into his back, unwilling to immediately leave him, and his hand smoothes out in my hair and strokes through it. A second hand touches my right shoulder after a moment, and I twist my head and pry my eyes open to find out the source. It's Bruce, of course. I don't manage much more than a wrung-out groan when his hand trails along my shoulder and then up to my throat.

"Come here, Jason," he commands. His voice is soft, but firm, and even through my haze I recognize it as the order it is.

I slowly get my hands loose from Dick's hips. Pulling out of him is harder, and drags a shudder and a strangled groan from me, but I manage that too. Dick relaxes into the bed, stretching out as he smiles and idly watches me through half-lidded eyes. I manage to crawl over to Bruce — I've got  _none_ of Dick's grace, but to hell with it right now — and he grips the back of my neck and pulls me up to straddle his hips. He lets me settle for a moment before pulling me into a kiss that I can  _feel_ the passion in, and the desire.

"That was beautiful," he murmurs, against my mouth. "I look forward to seeing it the other way around."

Even considering how wiped out my brain is, it takes me a lot longer than it should to piece together that he's talking about looking forward to watching Dick fuck me instead. I am  _way_ too worn out to really react to that idea, but I manage to give a sound into his mouth that I think might be something like anticipation. If I were focused enough to really feel anticipation, or react to anything not going on right this very second.

His other hand slides around my waist, and then dips down to pull a bit at the toy still buried inside of me. It drags a higher-pitched moan from me, but there's also definitely a bit of protest to my tone. I am  _not_ ready to be played with, not right now. I need a bit of time to recover, or I need to not be expected to actually do anything when he plays with me. Either works, I guess. Or maybe just, not playing with things that are quite so sensitive.

Bruce pulls back enough that he can trail a series of soft kisses down the side of my jaw and my shoulder, and I lean forward to rest my head against  _his_ shoulder. His fingers gently stroke through the hair at the base of my skull, occasionally pulling just a little bit. His other hand comes back up to safer territories, splaying out across my low back and just holding me to him. I definitely appreciate that he's not manipulating that toy, and with it my really sensitive prostate. Not a totally comfortable feeling at the moment.

Dick edges closer to us, lining his body up against the outside of my thigh and along Bruce's leg, and I glance down to see him set his head down next to Bruce's hip. Bruce's mouth curls in a tiny smile that I can feel against my shoulder, and his hand leaves my back. I track it down, and watch as he curls it into Dick's hair and sets it to the same soft stroking that he's doing to me. Dick's eyes close, and he leans into us with a soft sound of pleasure. I can't help reaching down with my left hand and letting it rest on his top shoulder. Just to touch him.

I go with it when Bruce pulls my head back, kisses pressing against the front of my throat before he gets far enough up to actually kiss me. I lean into that too, gathering the energy to raise my free hand to touch his side. I half expect him to pull the same thing he did on the jet, and not allow me to touch without permission, but he doesn't. Instead he drags his teeth across my bottom lip, and lifts my head to a slightly better angle so he can slip his tongue between my lips. I don't have the energy to really meet him, but I do the best I can with what I have left. Mostly, that just means relaxing into him and letting him do whatever he wants with me.

It seems to be good enough, because I can  _feel_ the leashed desire in the way he draws a few inches away, his teeth grazing my lip again.

He lets out a breath, long and slow. "I'm going to give you a few minutes to even out." I flick my eyes open to meet his gaze, to see the heat in his eyes that's so  _carefully_ restrained. "Then I'm going to turn you on your back and fuck you." My breath catches for a second, his mouth curls in a smirk, and his fingers tug lightly at my hair. "That sound good to you, Jason?"

I swallow, but then everything is just so fucking  _perfect_ , and feels so  _good_ , that I can't help but give a grin. "No complaints here, sir."

"Good," he nearly rumbles out. "After that, we'll see where the night takes us. I think Dick should be ready to take over after I'm done." I groan, closing my eyes and letting my head droop a few inches. Until Bruce pulls my head back to bare my throat, anyway. His mouth secures over the front of it, dragging one more mark to the top of my skin to add to the collection I'm going to have.

"Happy to," Dick confirms, and I can feel his teeth graze against the outside of my thigh, near my knee. "We wouldn't leave you empty, little wing. Not until the two of us are satisfied and ready to let you sleep." The laugh he gives is anything but comforting, and the hand he slides up my thigh and to my hip has a little more nail in it than it really should. "That could take all  _night_."

"The two of you are going to kill me," I say with another groan. I'm a whole lot more breathless than I was, and I can't help the way my hands contract on Dick's shoulder and Bruce's side.

Dick gives a bright laugh that makes his shoulder shake underneath my grip. "If you're dead we can't  _play_ with you, little wing. Talk about counter productive."

Bruce presses a lingering kiss over my latest mark. "Dick has a few good points there. You're not leaving this room until we're both satisfied, and that could be a long time. You can always bow out if it's truly too much for you, of course. But I think you enjoy the idea too much for that, don't you?"

" _God_ ," I spit, at Dick's mouth on my thigh, Bruce's on my throat, and his hand in my hair. "Are you expecting a real answer for that, sir?"

He chuckles, gives another small kiss to my throat, and then draws back an inch or so. "No, Jason." He gently pushes my head forward and tucks it down against his shoulder. "Relax. Take your few minutes, before I take you."

I give a small nod, flex my fingers on his side, and ease into his touch. "Yes, sir," I say softly.

I think — it's dangerous, it's  _insane_ — this might be real. I think they really might mean it when they say  _forever_. Even if they don't, even if it changes, I'm going to take every single moment of this that they'll let me have.

To hell with my own insecurities.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the epilogue! So, this is very short, but it includes the ending concept that I thought up about halfway through this story. And, as of this chapter, this story is officially wrapped up and done! I hope you enjoyed the ride! XD
> 
> (I have absolutely no idea what I'm posting next, but it'll be something interesting.)

Awareness comes slowly to me. Soft and warm, like almost all of my mornings for the past six months have been. With someone's breath blowing gently against the back of my neck, and the countering pattern of a second person's against the top of my chest. It only takes a moment to confirm that it's Bruce at my back, one heavy arm looped over my waist, and Dick in front of me, the fingers of one hand curled lightly around my upper arm and his head warm beneath my chin.

As soon as I've confirmed it's them, I firmly decide to stay exactly where I am.

I shift enough to curl the fingers of my upper arm into Dick's hair, and he gives a sleepy, pleased sound that tells me he's not asleep either. The second clue is the graze of his teeth across the skin of my chest; it's his way of saying good morning. I echo his noise, and angle my head so I can press a kiss to his hair. That tightens his fingers around my arm, and he makes a slightly less sleepy, and  _much_ more interested sound.

This has been…  _Incredible_. All of it.

For the first few months I kept expecting them to decide one day that I wasn't worth the trouble. Every time nightmares woke me in the early mornings, thrashing between them and  _screaming_ , or any time I told Dick 'no.' Especially, every time that I left to do any kind of business that didn't involve them. But they haven't. There have been some arguments — I would have been shocked if there weren't — and some moments I was absolutely  _sure_ they were about to leave me, but it hasn't happened. They've stayed, and they've let me stay too.

It's been an unbelievable half of a year, and I think I've finally realized that it's not  _going_ to end. This is permanent, as much as anything ever can be. They'll always be there when I need them, or just when I want them, and I will  _try_ to do that for them too. God, I'll try.

So, I've decided something else. The two of them deserve more from me than just words. This can't be official — not as three men, two of which are legally the third's sons, and one of them legally dead — but that doesn't mean I can't do  _something_. It took me a while to think it through, to decide, and to get exactly what I need, but I've finally got it all together. I just need to leave this bed and go actually do it. Way easier said than done.

Dick's head tilts up, trailing gentle bites up the center of my throat, and I pull my head back a bit to give him more room. Which leads to a rumble of sound from behind me and a brief tightening of the arm around my waist. Bruce shifts more obviously, pressing up against my back and pushing one of his thighs in between mine. I swallow down a moan, easing into both of their touches.

Until I remember that I have plans for today.

Then I give a small shake of my shoulders, which pauses the slide of Bruce's hand up my stomach, but not Dick's mouth on my throat. It doesn't stop him from rolling his hips forward into mine either. I gasp in a shallow breath, pushing forward just a bit before I can help myself.

"I have  _plans_ ," I manage to say. "Business. I have to go."

"Yeah?" Dick murmurs against my throat. "Your business expecting you at a certain time?"

I pause, and then admit, "No. But I—"

"You should stay for a 'good morning' then," Dick smoothly says over my words, rolling into me again and lightly biting down on my throat. I groan, and Bruce makes a quietly amused sound.

"If you really  _do_ have to go, we won't stop you, Jason," Bruce promises, "but if you have the time to spare…" He lets the thought end there, but the trail of his hand down my stomach is a pretty obvious end to the sentence. Ah,  _fuck_.

I do have to get all the way to Star City at a reasonable time, but they're three hours behind us so I guess that will work out just fine. I guess I  _do_ have the time, and I'm not going to lie and say that this isn't just about the best way in the world to wake up. Even if I didn't have the time, I'd probably still cave to the idea of something quick and hot to start the day.

Bruce's mouth presses high against the back of my neck, and then down. I can't feel it directly, but I know by the resulting sensation that he's closed his teeth around the black, braided leather cords that serve as a casual collar and tugged at it. I tilt my head back a little further and give a second groan. The cords get traded out for a heavier, sturdier leather piece when the three of us are in the mood for games — which is more often than not — but when the three of us are just casual, this is all I wear.

I don't wear it outside of our home, there's too much potential for it to be grabbed, damaged, or used to strangle me, but that works well. Outside of the manor I'm usually not much more than Red Hood, and apart from being a mercenary who works for them I publically don't have any ties to the Owls. Except to those who know I used to be Talon, but none of them are going to be sharing that information.

The collar feels… God, it feels  _good_. It feels like being owned in the best of ways, and it's presence is a constant reminder that Bruce and Dick have committed to this. That it really, actually, is going to last as long as 'forever' ever can between normal mortals. Every breath makes it pull a little tighter, and every time I move it brushes against my skin. It's like a paler imitation of Bruce's hand on my neck, and I  _love_ it. Plus, there is absolutely  _nothing_ that feels better than coming home, sharing a kiss with both or either of them, and then sinking to my knees to let one of them latch these cords around my throat.

It's a special kind of bliss, and satisfaction.

"Fuck, alright," I concede. "I've got time."

Dick makes a pleased noise, and the wrap of Bruce's hand around my partially hard cock is  _definitely_ a reward. "Good."

* * *

I take another glance at the scrawled address on the torn piece of paper — last time I let Harper write me a note; this is nearly illegible — and then look back up at the building. It's squashed between a few others, half the size of the rest. It doesn't look run down, and it actually does look like a business. The windows might be barred, and covered in art and posters — from the inside — that make it impossible to see inside, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. It's not uncommon for this type of business either. The door is propped open, but the only slice of the room I can see is a desk, chair, and older-looking computer. Looks like a register.

I shove the paper away and into the pocket of my jacket, and let out a small sigh before I head in. A chime sounds when I walk through the door, and I take a quick glance around as I wait for someone to answer it. The room's pretty small, and apart from two uncomfortable looking chairs against the wall to my right the desk and its accompanying chair are pretty much the only things. There's a partially open door to the left, and it's not more than a few seconds before a woman walks through it.

She's tall and pretty heavily muscled for a woman, with black hair tied back in a messy bun and a pair of sharp, dark green eyes. Her clothes are serviceable and fairly stained with various colors of ink. It almost looks purposeful. The once-white tank-top shows off the tattoos down her arms; absolutely  _incredible_ patterns and pictures with bright, blooming colors interspersed with thick streaks of black. The dark brown slacks are tucked into heavy black combat boots that actually look pretty professional; good quality even by my standards. She looks me up and down, briefly, and then leans her hip against the corner of the desk.

"First time?" she asks bluntly, voice soft and feminine and everything I was  _not_ expecting with what she looks like.

"Got a referral from a friend," I answer, "said you're the best he knows."

She doesn't look impressed. "Yeah? Which one?"

I pause, considering whether to say 'Roy,' or 'Arsenal,' and settle on flicking my right hand towards my left shoulder and describing him as, "Black skull with wings and green serpent tails. Among others."

She nods, looks at me a little closer for a moment. "You have enough to pay me?"

"Money's not a problem."

"Then I'm at your service." Her voice is just a little sarcastic, dry, and I find something in me relaxing into the comfortable humor. "You know what you want, or are you going to leave it up to me?"

"I know." I reach into the left pocket of my jacket — slowing my movements in an almost automatic attempt to stop the idea I'm reaching for a weapon — and pull out the carefully folded piece of paper that's the end result of all my considerations. I step forward to hand it to her. "I'm not the best artist, but that's the idea." She takes the paper, unfolding it with a practiced flick. "He said you knew how to expand on something basic."

She gives a small nod, studying my paper. "Yeah, I can. You sure about this? Hell of a piece for a first-timer."

There's not even a moment of doubt, and I give a thin smirk and answer, "Yeah. I'm sure."

Her eyes flick up to me. "Alright, it's your choice. Come on back; I'll sketch something out while you strip down, and we can get something concrete down before I start. It's going to hurt like a son of a bitch, you know that?"

I snort, then roll my shoulders in a shrug. "Pain's not a problem either. I can take it."

"I figured," she says, with a smirk that mirrors my own. "Lot of people  _say_ they can handle it, up until the needle goes in. Had to smack your friend a couple times to get him to stop squirming. You ready to do this now?" I nod, and she pushes off the desk to turn and head back. "Then come on, let's get started."

I follow her back.

* * *

She leaves me with strict instructions not to mess up her work, a bandage to take off within four hours, and warnings that boil down to not being able to actually do anything I'm used to doing. Including anything and everything physical that I would do as Red Hood.

So, for a little more than a week, I sit in one of my safe houses and make plans. I make deals, plan transactions months down the road, and take apart and clean just about every gun I own a dozen times. I go just a little stir crazy, but the thought of the ending reward makes me back down and stay inside. I trade some basic communication with Dick and Bruce, including one hot as fuck call where Bruce talks me through fucking myself on my own hand, and keeps me tight and strained for what has to be at least half an hour before he lets me come.

Finally, after too long, I'm healed as I'm going to be for a while. So I shoot Dick and Bruce matching texts to let them know I'm heading home, pack up what few things I actually brought to the safe house, and head out. I wasn't far from Gotham, and it doesn't take me long to get back.

Every shift of my shirt against my back — I didn't bother taking my armor with me when I left, and I definitely don't need it now — reminds me of what I've done. It builds anticipation in my stomach, and by the time I pull my motorcycle into the Roost I've got what feels like a horde of butterflies in my stomach. I take a moment to breathe out, as I'm shutting down my bike and swinging off of it. I saw the two of them when I came in, I know they'll both be heading over to greet me. I take my helmet off, set it on the seat of the bike, and turn around.

Seeing them simultaneously raises the number of butterflies in my stomach to millions, and eases something deep within me that makes me relax. I meet them halfway, and Dick — they're both in casual clothes; it's still the middle of the day — slides both hands into my hair and drags me into a kiss. I give a small groan of appreciation, surrendering to his touch and leaning into his body. He's warm and solid against me, and his kiss is a mix of desire and just Dick's eternal need for physical closeness. It lasts until Bruce clears his throat, an amused tinge to the sound.

Then Dick pulls away, resting his forehead against mine, and murmurs, "Welcome home, little wing."

I can't help the small grin that curls my mouth. "Good to be back." My voice is equally quiet, but Dick makes a bright, satisfied noise in response before he lets go of me and steps back. He moves far enough to the side to let Bruce past him, and my gaze falls to the slim, braided leather in his hand.

I sink to my knees, closing my eyes and letting my head fall a few inches. Bruce's fingers brush against the sides of my neck, and the leather follows. I feel it pull against the front of my throat, hear the faint click of the simple catch at the back, and then Bruce's hands are cupping my face and tilting my head up. I open my eyes,  _feeling_ the ease at the core of my being from the simple touch of the leather around my throat.

Here, with that leather around my neck, I'm safe. I'll always be safe here. I belong to the two of them, and they belong to me.

"Welcome home, Jason," Bruce says softly, fingers tracing over both sides of my jaw. "Did your business go well?"

This is the moment.

"I did something," I admit, meeting Bruce's gaze and then looking to the side, at Dick. "For both of you."

They share a glance, and I can read about a quarter of the conversation between them. I don't try for any more than that. After that brief moment they both look down at me, and Dick nods. "Tell us, little wing."

I pull in a slightly deeper breath, bracing myself, and then pull back from Bruce's touch just a bit. I lower my head and shrug off my jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind me. Then reach up and grab the collar of my shirt at the back of my neck so I can pull it up and over my head. I drop it to the floor, feeling the cool air of the Roost against my bare back. I tilt my head down, baring the back of my neck and making sure they can see the entirety of the tattoo spread over my back and shoulders.

It's a pair of wings, spreading out from my shoulder blades. Owl wings, specifically.

They're outspread along my shoulders, the longest feathers wrapping down nearly to my elbows. Each feather is individually shaded, the lines smooth except where the edges of the feathers are purposefully jagged. The bases of the wings extend about halfway down my back, feathers straight and not encroaching on my sides. With a jacket on it's invisible, with a normal t-shirt on the most you can see is the ends of the feathers on my arms.

It was the tattoo artist's idea to have the wings extend down my arms, instead of the classic pair of folded wings down the length of my back. I admit, Harper was right. The work across my back and upper arms is art; she even managed to work most of my scars into the art of the feathers. She spent almost an hour just talking with me as she studied my back and arms and sketched out the design, and the result is… I was impressed. I still am, actually. She got the money she asked for, and much more on the side.

I wanted something stereotypical, something that could and would be mistaken as a young man making a stupid decision. But to Dick, or Bruce, their meaning should be obvious enough.

Fingers touch my right shoulder, and I feel the shift of air as what has to be Dick sinks down next to me. I keep my head dipped, my eyes closed. His fingers trail over my skin, clearly tracing the lines of the tattoo down my back. I fight the urges to twitch, shudder, or otherwise move underneath the gentle touch of his fingertips. I let him trace the lines down my back, up again, out along my right arm, and then finally his hand smoothes out to rest on my shoulder.

"You did this for us?" Dick asks, sounding a little bit awestruck.

I open my eyes, turning my head enough to find his gaze. His eyes are surprised, but soft. "Yes," I answer simply. Then I carefully raise my head so I can look up at Bruce. He's silent, still, gaze fixed down over my head and on my back. I can read something like shock in his gaze, and Dick makes a quiet, amused noise.

"Give him a bit of time," Dick advises, and then leans in, rising to a high kneel to get the height advantage, and kisses me. His right hand slides through my hair, softly pulling, and his left hooks two fingers beneath my collar, knuckles pressing into my windpipe, and tugs me a little closer. I swallow down a shallow moan, raising my hands and letting them rest on either side of Dick's waist. He lets me, kissing me shallowly and with a hint of sweetness he usually only ever shows in the moments right before he falls asleep.

His knuckles press a little harder, my breath catches, and then he pulls back. His teeth drag against my bottom lip as he does, and I give a small groan and just barely stop myself from leaning forward to chase his lips. I wouldn't mind the knuckles pressing into my throat, but I know that now that he's decided to pull back, he's not going to let me catch and kiss him again until he wants to. Not unless I catch him unawares, anyway.

Dick gives a soft hum, fingers combing through my hair, and I open my eyes. The bright blue of his gaze looks back at me, and his mouth curls in a smile just as bright. "It's gorgeous, little wing. Your design?"

I give a very small shrug. "The basic idea. It had to be something obvious to  _us_ , but not to anyone else. No names, or symbols, or anything like that." Dick's smile widens a little further. "Wings are all over the place, no one's going to question it."

"Tell us why," Bruce cuts in, and I tilt my head up to look at him. Dick doesn't let go of either my collar or my hair. Bruce looks serious, a little shut down and definitely blanked off. It makes my throat clench shut in nerves.

"Easy," Dick murmurs, clearly feeling my tension. "It's just a question, Jason."

I swallow, then give a small nod and close my eyes for a moment. I've had so much time to think about this, to word it in my head. Of course now it's not coming nearly as smoothly as I fantasized about it. "I got this because I'm yours," I lower my head enough I can look at Dick, "and yours. I can't offer either of you anything official; I can't even offer something public because I'm just— I'm not ready to give up Red Hood yet."

"We wouldn't ask you to," Dick inserts, smoothly.

"I know." I flex my hands at his waist, give a thin smirk that I can only hold for a moment before I look back up at Bruce. "Both of you deserve more than just having me within these walls. I can't wear the collar outside, I can't  _tell_ anyone, and…" I swallow again, dip my head for just a second before I pull myself together and manage to get the words out of my mouth. "And we promised. Always."

The hand in my hair clenches, I hear Dick suck in a quick breath through his teeth, but I don't take my gaze off of Bruce. I can see his eyes widen just a touch, and I offer a small, crooked grin that I  _know_ doesn't look real. Too high on nerves, too distracted by waiting for his reaction or his rejection.

"I—" I have to clear my throat, glance down and at Dick to try and get away from the intensity of Bruce's gaze. Just long enough to stabilize, but then I get caught by the look in Dick's eyes — soft, bright,  _happy_  — and end up staring at him as I quietly admit, "I believe it now." I carefully raise my hands off of Dick's sides, up to touch his cheeks and carefully cup his face. "I  _believe_ ," I repeat, "and I'm not always…" I shove out a breath, closing my eyes and lowering my head a few inches. "You both deserved more of a commitment than some words that might change the next time I have a bad day. You deserved  _always_."

I feel Dick's lips press against my forehead, feel his touch gentle and his fingers slip from beneath my collar to just touch my neck instead. "Little wing, you're…" He takes in a breath, lets it go against my forehead, and then he's laughing. Warm and full of an unfiltered  _joy_  that makes me open my eyes again. Until his lips are pressing against mine, and he's still laughing but it's muffled against my mouth.

I let my hands slip back to take loose handfuls of his hair and the top of his t-shirt, gently pulling him into me. Then a hand touches my left shoulder, larger than Dick's. Dick keeps me held to him, but I still track the slide of Bruce's fingers along the lines of my new tattoo, and hear the slight rustle of clothing as he — I'm almost positive — kneels down at my back. My theory is confirmed when I feel his second hand touch my low back on the right side, and then his left slides down to join it. They clasp at either side of my back, and then I twitch a bit and gasp into Dick's mouth at the warm, slightly wet press of Bruce's lips between my shoulder blades.

Dick pulls back from the kiss, his laughing finally calmed down. Bruce presses a soft kiss to the back of my right shoulder, and then my left.

"It's beautiful, Jason," Bruce says softly. "Thank you."

The words instantly relax me, and I let out a shuddering sigh and ease into their touch. " _Yours_ ," I promise. "Always."

"You'll have to tell me the artist that did it," Bruce comments, lips finding the back of my neck. "This is extremely good work. I'd love to see the way it looks when you're moving."

Dick gives another laugh, and his lips press against my forehead again. "Definitely. Come on, little wing. We've got to get you upstairs and stripped down so we can pay this the attention it deserves. At least a few hours. We didn't have anything planned tonight, right, Bruce?"

"Nothing that can't be canceled or rescheduled," he rumbles out against my back. "I'll clear our schedules for the next couple of days." I shiver, giving a small groan at the idea. "I think this requires some uninterrupted time to appreciate."

Dick makes a sound of satisfaction, and then tightens his grip on me for just a moment. "Always," he murmurs, against my forehead.

"Always," Bruce echoes.

I relax.


End file.
